


Storm Amid Starlight

by TwisterMelody



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-The Hounds of Baskerville, Romance, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwisterMelody/pseuds/TwisterMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is unpredictable, wonderful, and terrifying all at once. With trust, love, and life on the line, John and Sherlock must work to fight the oncoming waves of the storm together to save themselves and each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Day in the Life

**Author's Note:**

> Tags for later chapters, of course!

The wind whipped and whirled around around him. The sky grew darker with every minute that passed. He had just rounded a corner when he heard it - a single shot rang out. John froze instantly. The sound pierced through the air, the sound echoing down the alley walls at a sharp speed. He spun on his heels and ran as quickly as he could. He acted out of pure instinct, the adrenaline junkie in him running towards the line of fire, his feet pounding against the concrete as he ran. His heartbeat thrummed through his ears and the cold air stung his lungs. Thunder cracked from the mist of grey above him, jolting his mind back into action.

"Sherlock!" he screamed out into the wind, but no answer. He maneuvered his way down his path, across the forgotten street, and through the alleyway and around a corner until he came to a dead stop at the sight that greeted him.

Sherlock stood before him, casually leaning his back against the worn brick wall of the building behind him, his long legs crossed at the ankles and his hands stuffed into his coat pockets. The air around them was cool and damp, as usual for late March, and Sherlock's black coat collar stuck up against the wind. Their eyes met, and John felt relief wash over him upon being the subject of Sherlock's sharp gaze. He was calm and collected - thankfully not an injured man at all.  
  
"John, there you are! I was wondering when you'd turn up."  
  
"Are you okay?" he asked breathlessly.

"Me? Yes, fine. Fine."

John glanced over and noticed the crumpled body of their suspect - Russell Travers - sprawled out and seemingly unconscious on the ground. "What happened, then?"  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes "No, I didn't _shoot_ him." He started towards him. "It was all quite simple, really. This moron here," he motioned at the body, "thought he had me trapped, apparently. And while he -"

They were getting lost in conversation. John's instincts didn't pick up on it, Sherlock had failed to observe. Stupid, _stupid_ distractions. Sherlock had always warned him. Solve first, explain later. They were cut off by the all too familiar click of a gun, causing them both to turn. John let his mind sharpen to one point, all of his energy focused on the man on the ground. He had pulled himself up into a crouching position like a snake ready to strike. The man's eyes had darkened as his mouth pulled back into a snarl. His hands were steady as he aimed the gun straight at Sherlock.

"Did you think you two would get away that easily? Really?" He let out a manic laugh. "I don't think so." His fingers tightened around the trigger.

"Look here, put the gun down, and just stop this," John tried reasoning with him. He looked over to Sherlock for some sort of help, but all he received as a roll of the eyes.

Russell got himself up to his feet. "No, no I don't think so."

"Yes, you don't think. That much is obvious." John shot Sherlock a glare for the umpteenth time that day. This was not the time of the place to show off intelligence and arrogance.

Russell aimed the gun at Sherlock and kept at it. Russell's distraction was just enough for John to whip his own gun out of the waistband of his jeans in the blink of an eye. Swiftly, he aimed his weapon at the suspect's head. The man became startled, his face in an open frown. Apparently the notion that they would be unprepared hadn't dawned upon him. John could hear Sherlock in his head. _Moron_.

Travers instantly took off running with Sherlock at his heels. John pushed his gun back into his jeans and was once again behind Sherlock, chasing danger through the city. _Just another day_ , he thought.

"There's no use in running!" the detective called out. But that didn't stop him. It only encouraged him, in fact.

John saw it coming before Sherlock did. The man's posture as he ran gave it away, shoulders stiffened, head cocked slightly to the side. Abruptly, Russell turned and fired. John's instinct to protect sprung into action. He drove his body into Sherlock's with a force, slamming him down onto the concrete below them. Seconds later it registered what had happened, a delay between his mind and the obvious. He sat dazed for a moment before he realized Sherlock wasn't moving.

"Sherlock!"

John shook the detective but to no avail. There was no blood, no wound. Checking his pulse revealed steady heartbeat. _Good. Just unconscious, then._ John had two options - stay and make sure he was okay, or go after Russell to end this.

As much as he wanted to stay, he chose the second option in the end. He knew if he didn't he would surely never hear the end of it, no matter the outcome. It was not until he started running again that he registered the searing pain in his right thigh. _Must have grazed me_ , he thought. Still pumped full of adrenaline, he grit his teeth and continued. The man hadn't managed to get far, and when they finally reached an apparent dead end, John pulled out his weapon again.

"Drop it. You have nowhere left to go, and the police will be here soon. Drop the gun." He spoke evenly.

Russell shook his head with a wicked look cast upon his face, a darkened gleam in his eye. He suddenly hurled himself through the lengthy window of one of the abandoned buildings that lined the alleyway and vanished inside.

"Damn it," John muttered to himself in frustration as he quickly followed. 

The building was entirely dim between the non-existent electricity and the next to no lighting from the thunderclouds rolling outside. Empty and deserted with piles of junk were scattered across the floor. The place was quiet - so quiet. John ducked his head and tried to pinpoint something, _anything_ , that would indicate where the criminal had gone.

There he heard it from a distance, fading footsteps up a flight of stairs on the opposite side of the room. He scrambled himself across the place as quickly as he could when the footsteps quickened in pace. Up the steps, past the second floor, and onto the third. He found Russell waiting for him near a forgotten dust covered window with his handgun drawn.

John sneered at him. "Put the gun down. Now."

Russell shook his head, his shoulders shaking, his eyes unfocused. Seeing an opportunity, John wasted no time. The gun dropped from the criminal's hand and John's from his own as he took the opportunity to tackle him. They wrestled to the ground where the man got a strangle hold around John's neck. Calloused fingers pressed down tightly along his windpipe, leaving him gasping. His airway was sufficiently blocked, but he wasn't about to go down without a fight. He kicked and thrashed with every ounce of strength he had until the grip loosened, then effectively flipped Russell onto his back.

The first gulp of air hurt, but John started punching with all that he could, blood from Russell's mouth splattering on the concrete. Somehow, in the midst of the blows, the man beneath him mustered up enough energy to slam John back into the rock hard wall with an angry force. His throat hurt, his head throbbed, and his thigh burned, but he kept on. The criminal managed to reach into his own pocket in the moment of disorientation. The hand found its way around his neck once again. The next thing John felt was a deep, sharp pain in his abdomen.

"Not so quick now, are ya?" He wrenched the small knife out of his flesh as John hissed in pain, and drove it back in, but this time into his side. John tried so hard to fight the deep ache. He willed his eyes shut and bit down on his lip so hard it bled - which he didn't really need help with in that department. The bitter copper taste coated his tongue.

"First, I'm going to kill you. Then, I'm going to kill your arrogant friend." He twisted the knife before yanking it out of his side.

John bit down even harder on his lip in agony.

"And you know what? I'm going to enjoy watching the worthless scum suffer, screaming for help that will never come. Those brains of his will look great splattered across the pavement."

He aimed the knife again for his chest, but John jerked his body so it crashed into the wall instead. As much agony as he was in, hearing him talk about Sherlock like that gave him back some of the strength he thought had drained from his body. Vaguely, he started to worry about the detective, who was still nowhere to be seen. The deep pain snapped him back to the present. Worry about him later, not now.

"Oh, I really don't think so." He manged to bite out the words with the little air he had.

The knife was drawn back once more. Seeing his only chance, John quickly propelled himself forward, knocking Russell on his back again before kneeing him in the groin as hard as he could. The man rolled on the floor, groaning and screaming out a string of expletives. John barely managed to stand up after the roughing up he'd just had. He was dizzy and bleeding and just filled with pain. John was a man of strong moral principal, yes, but with the events that just transpired, he opted to bend his own rules a bit. He picked up his gun from the ground and aimed, firing once. The bullet crushed into Russell's knee, which left him yelping and grasping at different parts of his body.  
  
"Going to kill me now, Doctor Watson?" Russell managed out minutes later as he still lay on the ground.

John shook his head with a mock frown. "Nah." He looked around the room. "I think I'll wait a bit longer."

"I really don't think you'll want to."  
  
"And why is that, then?" John asked, assessing his injuries. The wounds weren't very deep, but were bleeding quite a bit. As long as he got to the hospital relatively soon to stitch everything up, maybe get some painkillers, he'd be fine. Absolutely fine. He pressed down on his abdomen with a hiss. "Got some invisible henchmen lying around do you?"  
  
"Not exactly."  
  
John returned his focus back to Russell who had managed to get his gun back in his hand. John drew up his arm again.  
  
"Don't," he warned.  
  
"Oh no, would never dream of it," he coughed. He looked pathetic - crumpled on the floor and bleeding with his gun as a last resort. "This was my back up plan. See, I'm not as stupid as that useless, dysfunctional excuse for a man apparently thinks."  
  
John's lip curled back angrily as he cocked his gun, ready to fire at any second. Something deep within him stirred at mention of Sherlock like that, making his anger boil to the surface. Russell just chuckled menacingly as he stared at something near invisible at the center of the room. John cautiously followed his gaze and let his vision adjust for a moment. Slowly as he understood, his eyes widened in dismay.  
  
 _'... as ever, you see but do not observe...'_

* * *

  
  
Sherlock had finally regained a sound mind and started running in the direction they had been going minutes before. Dead end, this path, must have gone off into -  
  
Before he could even finish his thought, the earth around him rocked and he was violently knocked back to the ground. He didn't have to look around to understand what had just happened. It felt like a lead ball had been promptly dropped in the pit of his stomach. Only one word ran through his thoughts like a desperate prayer.  
  
 _John._  
  
Fire and smoke bloomed up above his head as shards of glass came raining down. He ran, his long legs carrying him as quickly as they could into the flaming building. Thick black smoke and dust clouded his vision. He shielded his mouth from the smoke with the thick wool of his coat the best he could as he moved. His lungs were aching for clean air but he couldn't care less.  
  
"John!" He yelled as loud as he could. Nothing. The floor above him had caved in somewhat, leaving pieces of the building scattered around the first level. Something in his gut was pulling at him - _up_. His gaze darted around a few more times before he sought out the broken staircase and scrambled upward. The entry to the second floor was a bit blocked, as the third floor had almost entirely collapsed above him, along with bits of the roof. Fire occupied a good percentage of the area with smoke still billowing at the sky through the broken ceiling.  
  
Wasting no time, he bounded over debris and called out again. "John!"  
  
Then he heard it - a string of muffled hacking sounds from the corner of the building. At that moment in time, it was the greatest sound he'd ever heard. Sherlock lurched towards the corner and found John. He was on his back, gasping for air under a monstrous pile of soot and debris, with rather a lot of blood coming through his clothes.  
  
"John! How badly are you hurt?" Sherlock's voice was filled with frenzy as he immediately dropped down, yanking his phone from his coat pocket.  He raked over what was visible of his body with one hand while the other had his phone pressed firmly to his ear.  
  
"I don't -" John started coughing once again, his lungs trying to rid themselves of the poisonous air.  
  
"Hold on!" After yelling the situation into the phone and throwing it aside carelessly, Sherlock started furiously digging. Knuckles and wrists skimmed against glass and jagged edges of metal and old brick as he got closer. Adrenaline and anger was already pumping through his veins when he heard a shuffling sound on the other side of the room, the sound of cheap shoes against glass. Russell had managed to survive as well, and was aiming for the stairs. Sherlock didn't see John's gun anywhere in sight and he had a decision. Chase the criminal or get John out, to safety.  
  
In the end, the choice was clear.  
  
He kept digging.  
  
For John, it seemed, there was only so much he could take. Sherlock was attempting to get him out, but some movements would make the debris shift into his body even farther. He screamed out in complete anguish, his head thrashing from side to side with muffled sounds coming from his mouth. Sherlock kept his stare on John as he plucked at the debris with a tiny bit more care. He didn't want to cause pain, but he certainly didn't want him stuck there, either. Flames flickered and danced around them almost in mockery of his attempts. Smoke swirled through the air, covering everything in sight, and taking remnants of oxygen with it. His fingers had numbed at the pain of his ferocious digging. Suddenly, he came to a stop. A monumental task lay ahead as a large section of the wall from the floor above had landed on John's torso and legs.   
  
 _This last piece and he'll be okay. Just get him out. He'll be okay_.  
  
Several long minutes passed. Sherlock pushed and shoved against the remaining piece with all that he had, but it wouldn't budge. He dug his fingers into his scalp and yelled out of frustration.  
  
"Sherlock, stop," John eventually whispered, with hope drained from his voice. "You can't do this."  
  
The detective looked him up and down, metallic eyes full of unforgiving thunder. There was much more blood than there was minutes ago, the growing stains on his jumper turning the angriest shade of crimson. John was struggling to stay awake it seemed, his breathing uneven, his eyes staring blankly at the broken ceiling above. Ash and blood covered most of his face in an ominous way, his skin much paler than usual. He grunted at the words. There was nothing he couldn't do, and he wasn't about to be told otherwise. Minutes dragged along more like hours, and Sherlock's heart was roaring through his ears. John caught his attention with the stiffness of his body, his eyes drawn to a close.  
  
"John?" Trembling hands gripped his shoulders tightly, as if letting go, he would disappear completely. "Can you hear me? Answer me!"  
  
John opened his eyes halfway and blinked. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." His voice was raspy with pure exhaustion and smoke.  
  
Sherlock shook his curls furiously over him. "Sor... For what?"  
  
"I'm dying, and I've got nothing clever to say." He gave him a weak smile through his agony.  
  
Those bright, brilliant eyes widened immediately. "No. Shut up. You are not dying. You are not allowed to die. Do you understand me?"  
  
John's breathing started to become more erratic by the second. "Even you can't revise the laws of death, you know."  
  
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Watch me." Sherlock smiled nervously. "The ambulance is coming. Just stay awake. Can you do this for me?" Though, he wasn't sure how true the statement was. Lestrade and the rest of the force should have been in the area ages ago.  
  
"I... Yes. I think."  
  
Sherlock kept trying, and kept failing. Two minutes ticked by. Where the hell was that ambulance? Desperate and furious, he searched around for where his phone may have landed in the rubble to have another attempt at calling for help.  
  
"Sher... I'm sorry."   
  
"Stop it, John. Stop it, now." He glanced around at the war-zone surrounding them both, avoiding John's gaze. "Don't..."  
  
The man who would outlive God trying to have the last word seemed to be at a loss. There had always been a silent understanding between them that their work was dangerous, but it was part of the thrill. They both knew something like this was bound to happen, whether they wanted to admit it to themselves or not. But to have John actually slip away? It was a thought he kept locked out. An impossibility that had no place in his universe. There was a timeline in his mind that consisted of before John and during - an after would be unfathomable.  
  
John took a deep breath and began coughing so fiercely that Sherlock nearly winced in sympathy. John opened his eyes much more than before, and Sherlock began trembling slightly above him, his body betraying him under the stress.  
  
"You know you changed my life, don't you?" John managed to speak through grit teeth, trying to hide a bit of his pain.  
  
Sherlock went a bit slack-jaw and shook his head. There was disbelief. Not in what John admitted, but the heaviness of prediction behind his words.  
  
"No? All those deductions, and you couldn't figure that one out? You really are a brilliant idiot." He let out a lifeless chuckle that didn't last long. His body was gasping for desperate air. He brought his hand to up the the lapels of Sherlock's coat and held on for dear life. "Listen." He said quietly through the smoke and cackling flames as he pulled Sherlock down to him, his lips close to his ear. "Thank you. This. All of it," he managed to say as if complete sentences were too much of a chore. "It's been... amazing."  
  
Sherlock's lips twisted in an unnatural way. "John, you can save this ridiculous display of nonsense for later on." He leaned just mere inches from his face, his usual impassive mask now stripped away. "What did I tell you before, hmm? I would be lost without my blogger, remember? You are not allowed to die, do you understand?"  
  
Articulation came naturally to him in all other matters except that of the heart. He couldn't bear to see him in that state, to give up so easily. The emotional side of himself he kept so well hidden overwhelmed him, and for once, his body moved faster than his mind.  
  
His shaking, bloodied hands slid up to the sides of the man's face, holding him gently. There was a flicker of his eyes to John, a question wrapped up in a single glance. Quickly, he ducked his head down and pressed his lips to John's. He could almost feel John's hand's tighten around the his lapels as he pulled him down closer still. The kiss was chaste and desperate all at once, a reassurance more than anything.   
  
He pulled away, frozen in place with John's hands still tangled in his coat. He risked a glance and saw not confusion nor anger, but instead a knowing and trusting look upon his face. Once he realized what he had just done, he faltered. Emotions and consequences raced through his mind at the speed of light. He shook himself, focusing on what mattered at the moment - getting John out. Later, there would be time, all the time in the world. John's grip loosened, and Sherlock bent down to his ear, his baritone voice barely above a whisper.  
  
"You will not say goodbye to me," he practically ordered. "Not now, not here."  
  
John didn't answer. His body seemed to let out a sigh of defeat. Sherlock went back to pushing and shoving against the piece of wall, trying to use his body weight as an advantage. Finally, _finally_ , the sound of sirens pierced through the air, and within minutes, paramedics were scrambling up the broken stairway. The shouting became loud in competition with the fire engines arriving as the flames danced on. A blur of movement all around him, and the wall was finally lifted. Sherlock rushed to John's side as he was placed onto the stretcher.  
  
"See," Sherlock said with a shaking voice, "you're going to be alright!"  
  
He grabbed John's left hand, bringing it up to his face with both of his own upon instinct. Even as he was being lifted, they never separated - a physical chain of hope. Suddenly, John squeezed his hand tightly, and then his grip slackened. He saw the energy drain from his friend's body at once. His other arm dropped, dangling lifelessly off the stretcher as his blue eyes disappeared behind heavy lids. Sherlock was thrown into a panic.  
  
"John? John, wake up!" He wanted to get through, to shake him awake, to bring him back to the here and now, but it was hopeless. He tried, of course, and was shoved away by the paramedics, demanding him to let them do their job. The stillness of John's chest froze as an image in his mind and his world fell completely silent.  
  
The chain was broken, as were Sherlock's thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the song "A Day in the Life" by The Beatles


	2. Only Time

Sherlock whirled around furiously in his coat which might as well have been a substitute shock blanket.   
  
"Nothing? No news?" Sherlock loomed over the terrified young nurse, gathering information within seconds. "Look at you! Judging by your age and the way you present yourself, you only pursued this career to please your parents. You keep glancing at the clock, waiting to get home to your significant other, and you're looking rather bored." He stared him up and down, practically sneering all the while. "Oh yes, fine, social interactions - obviously much more important than your job!" He was unapologetically shouting at him, not caring of his reaction or the reactions of anyone else. They didn't matter. "You have been in here multiple times avoiding me. You are doing nothing with your time - and after all of this, you tell me there's no news? Nothing? It's been hours! Just exactly what sort of professional are you?!"  
  
"Sherlock, you need to calm down!" Lestrade was glaring at him from the other side of the empty waiting room, only empty because the detective had terrorized everyone else out of it. Angry deductions had been spat left and right since the moment they arrived at anyone who happened to be in his line of vision.  
  
"There is nothing wrong with me!" he snapped, losing complete control over his words. "This is a place of work, and these fools obviously don't know what they're doing!"  
  
"Sherlock, they just - "  
  
"And just where were you, Inspector hmm?" he asked, rounding on Lestrade and leaning in close with his stare sharpened. "Perhaps if you competent enough to look at your phone, or do your _job_ for that matter," he hissed, "we wouldn't be here! _John_  wouldn't be here!"  
  
Lestrade didn't answer, just closed his mouth and gave him a sorrowful look, his eyes casting their own heavy shadows upon his tired face. In a bit of frustrated fury, Sherlock half threw an ugly chair across the waiting room. It toppled over, crashing into one of the dull grey walls. Startled and visibly alarmed, the nurse quickly disappeared from view.  
  
Long hours had taken their time to pass, leaving Sherlock with nothing but anger. Anger at this hospital, anger at the suspect, and anger at himself for not seeing any of it coming. He failed to observe and in the process, he let John down. What good was he?  
  
That morning, John had even been joking about his possible end, telling Sherlock he probably would be the death of him someday.  
  
The anger bubbling to the surface of his mind was heavily coated with the sick feeling of regret. There had been so much blood. Too much. His lungs had to have been working overtime in the haze of the burning room. Just the thought of the light being pulled away from John's eyes and the life from his face made him physically wince. And there he lay, saying goodbye as if he were in the midst some sort of trivial romance novel. Lestrade eyed him cautiously as he paced throughout the room. This wasn't supposed to happen. Of all people, John, the strong soldier and man that he was, didn't deserve to clinging to the thread of life in this godforsaken hospital. He sank down to the cold tile floor with his back to the wall.  
  
Uncertainty. It spread throughout his chest like the flood of the ocean in a hurricane - full of past and present and future mixed into one area of his mind where they should never intersect. Too many scenarios stuck on auto play in the center of his brain and he just didn't know how to make it stop. He drew his knees in closer and buried his head in his hands for some sort of self assurance that couldn't be found for once.  
  
'... _a rocket, tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launch pad_...'  
  
Soon he was met with the sound of thick fabric sliding against the wall, a small shuffling of clothing, and the even breaths of a worn out DI now sat next to him.  
  
"Sherlock," Lestrade said softly in a tone a parent would use on their child, "they really are doing their best, you know."  
  
Sherlock clamped his eyes shut - noted to be extremely ineffective for blocking out the world. The hospital filled his senses - the feel of the manufactured tile, cheap fluorescent bleeding in through his eyelids, the smell of disinfectant, and an intercom that needed updating. They all struck out at him, reminding him of why he was there in the first place.  
  
"Their best is simply not good enough," he muttered through his fingers. Doubt, fear, uncertainty. The emotions he kept locked away were slipping through the cracks, and there was nothing he could do about it.  
  
"Look," Lestrade started after a few minutes of tense silence, apparently trying to approach from a different angle. "John's a strong lad, he made it through the hell of a war, I'm sure he can make it through this."  
  
Sherlock willed his eyes open to glower at him.  
  
"Don't try to fill my head with your empty thoughts, Inspector."  
  
"I will have you know, my thoughts aren't quite as empty as you've come to believe." He gestured at the hallway facing them, where a doctor was cautiously heading their way with a slightly nervous smile on her face.  
  
Sherlock immediately stood up and met her at the entrance of the room. 'Be nice - or at least, less you - or else you will be banned from the premises' is what Lestrade had told him. As if they would be able to keep him away. Nonetheless, he needed to see John as quickly as possible - to see for himself that there was blood rushing through his veins, not out. To hear air pumping steadily through his lungs. To see for himself the life within that smile he was strangely fond of.  
  
"Sherlock Holmes?" she asked, looking up from her clipboard.  
  
"Yes, yes, that's me, obviously. Where is he?"  
  
"Mr. Watson is-"  
  
He immediately cut her off, and had to hold back the annoyance in his voice. "Doctor. Doctor Watson." Really, they couldn't even get his title right?  
  
She glanced down at the paperwork on her clipboard. "Oh, yes, apologies. Doctor Watson is in a private room in recovery at the moment. Luckily, he didn't have to be put in ICU. And he -"  
  
"Luckily?" Once again, he had to hold back the venom. Luck didn't exist, and if it did, this certainly wouldn't constitute as such.  
  
She stared up at him and spoke in a bit more of a serious tone. "Yes, Mr. Holmes, he is lucky. Very much so. Now, unless you are an immediate family member, I am going to have to ask you to leave until normal visiting hours."  
  
No no _no_.  
  
Excuses zoomed across his mind, and ways to break in if necessary. There was a whisper saying 'If all else fails, run.' Suddenly, an idea flashed brightly across his vision.  
  
He coughed, digging his ID out along with John's that he was given upon arrival. He flashed both up to her face so she could read the addresses clearly before he spoke with confidence. "I am his partner, and I do believe that identifies me as immediate family," he said coolly. There. It wasn't exactly the truth, but it wasn't exactly a lie, either. Surely, in some uses of the word, they were definitely partners. And they were partners in every other way, according to half of London, anyway.  
  
She glanced up at him. "I am sorry, really I am, but I'm afraid I will need more proof than that."  
  
Sherlock almost panicked. His feet were ahead of him, just waiting, waiting on a word to start a sprint. "Do I look like I carry around a certificate? Why would I? It's just a useless piece of paper that -"  
  
Lestrade coughed behind him. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, madam." Lestrade stepped up to them both as he pulled out his own identification that Sherlock hadn't managed to swipe yet. Lestrade gave Sherlock a warning look and then gently urged the doctor off to the side, speaking to her in hushed tones.   
  
His body was nearly twitching in anticipation as they spoke. He could have listened in. They were so close, and it would have been so simple if not for the fact all of his energy had focused to one point - John.  
  
"Okay." He heard her say after seeming to chew over whatever information Lestrade had fed her. "Right this way, Mr. Holmes."  
  
Sherlock turned to face Lestrade, with a smirk of gratitude on his face. Lestrade's only response was to just raise his eyebrows at him as if saying 'Shut up. Go. Be nice.' He would have to remember to attempt to not insult the Detective Inspector as much during their next encounter.

* * *

  
  
Fragile.  
  
No, that wasn't right. Yet, the words kept dancing throughout his head.  
  
Fragile. Delicate. Frail.  
  
Those were not words to describe the John Watson he knew and lived alongside. No. But, there he lay reclined in that menacing hospital bed, hooked up to various machines, looking incredibly small.  
  
A butterfly bandage had been plastered at the corner of his forehead, an oxygen wire wrapped unforgivingly around his face. The tubes protruding from the back of his right hand had already caused their own bruising, adding to the multiple marks and scrapes speckled across his body from the day's events.   
  
Feeble. Brittle. Weak.  
  
Intermittent whirs and beeps pierced the otherwise ominously silent room. John didn't look the least bit peaceful in his drug induced sleep. Stress lines were deeply driven into his somewhat paler face, his lips twisting into a tired frown, and his left hand clenched within itself. That just would not do.  
  
Sherlock sought out the drip for the painkillers - and _there_. Up just a notch, that should be better. John's features smoothed out just a fraction, but just enough for Sherlock to notice, and he managed the smallest of grins to himself. He padded around the room to make sure everything else was adequate to his liking, and to the ex-army doctor's needs. The room was typical, a bit on the small side, but it could have been worse. At least he wasn't being forced to share the chamber with some sickly infectious person. A small television hung from one corner, and the large windows gave light to the room, Sherlock leaving the annoying fluorescents switched off.  
  
After the brief inspection, he sat himself down in an obviously cheap chair on John's left side as he read through his medical chart. Outside, dark thunderclouds had made way for a shining night sky. Moonlight illuminated John's face in a way that made him seem innocent. Sherlock scoffed at the mere idea. He knew better.  
  
' _You_ have _just killed a man_.'  
' _Yes, I know... That's true. But, he wasn't a very nice man_.'  
  
He grimaced as he read through the chart in his hands. Any breath could have been his last - what then? No, don't think about that. He had always been so absolutely sure of himself, and look where they - no, John - ended up because of it. His brain was still on overdrive over his well being with no way to make it stop, not even for a moment. The thoughts of the kiss kept popping up no matter how much he shoved them aside. He tried making nonsensical excuses for the action, attempting to convince himself it was nothing more than an act of adrenaline, and would explain so to John if he wished to discuss it if he woke up.  
  
The word hung heavy in his mind like a guillotine ready to be set into motion: _If_.  
  
Suddenly, he found himself needing more proof of the life before him. He knew it was illogical by all accounts. The sounds and the visuals told him more than he needed to know, but there was a deep, urgent need inside of him, a need for closeness. He scooted as close as he could, his knees knocking against the bed frame before reaching across and wrapping his own left hand over John's right wrist. The satisfying beat of a steady heart pulsed under the pad of his thumb, allowing him to let out a breath of relief. And so the waiting began.  
  
An hour passed. And then another.  
  
The darkened room still gave away the evidence of how many lives had been here before him, and just how many hadn't walked out. _Stop it,_ he thought to himself.  
  
John still hadn't moved after his long wait, but Sherlock remained where he was. His hawk-like gaze had stayed fixated on John the entire time, and he was determined not to leave his side until he was absolutely certain he was alright. He sighed and muttered a bit louder than necessary. "I would very much appreciate it if you chose to become conscious now." He was getting rather uncomfortable sitting, and just a bit impatient. He was also fighting the urge to go and find Russell Travers himself and break every bone in his worthless body. Surely he deserved that and more... But he couldn't leave John. No matter what happened, in on it together, and Sherlock knew where he belonged, and it was at John's side. Always.  
  
The young nurse he had been looming over hours ago came in to check his vitals every now and then. Sherlock's unforgiving gaze bore into his every movement. The nurse evidently found this seemingly alarming, and left as quickly as he could. _Good_.  
  
He kept running over the last twenty-four hours over and over again trying to pinpoint to exact mistake. He just couldn't figure it out, and nothing was more frustrating than an unsolved case. He sighed, and focused his attention to the steady rise and fall of John's chest. His own body had become exhausted at the day's activities, and his mind really wasn't coping well with torturing itself.   
  
 _I can't solve this!_  
  
To stop the engine, get rid of its source of fuel. He folded his arm's across John's lap. Just for a moment, he thought. Slowly as to not to stir the resting man, he lay his head down on his arms. He closed his weary eyes and focused all of his attention to one point. Everything was effectively blocked out except for the pulse still singing under his thumb - present, constant, factual - a sweet lullaby to a day gone terribly wrong.

* * *

  
  
Wakefulness came to John slowly, welcoming him back just as the sun was coming up over the horizon, the golden rays warming his face. His body felt heavy and his mind was clouded in a thick haze. It was a struggle, then, to even think properly. The first thing he noticed before opening his eyes was the humming of machines and the smell of disinfectant. It brought him right back to when he had a bullet tear through his shoulder in Afghanistan. Honestly, he was growing weary of waking up in hospitals.  
  
Hospitals. Right.  
  
The disjointed memories of the day before came rushing back to him quite painfully. The explosion, the knife, the running and wrestling. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip. Definitely swollen. And of course, like last time, a bullet had been involved, but very different from the one before. Nowhere near as painful as the desert. This wasn't for Queen and country, but for Sherlock.  
  
 _Sherlock_ , he thought, _is probably out chasing some criminal without me, I'm not doing him any good here_.  
  
Enough coherency finally broke through the fog in his brain for the pressure on his lap to register. He couldn't figure out what the cause of it could be, and that in itself was worrying. Multiple attempts proved failure as he tried to open his eyes, feeling as if they'd been cemented shut. Finally, he managed to flutter them open, the blinding light from the incoming sunshine making it near impossible to see when he did. He blinked rapidly, letting his vision adjust for a moment. When he managed to glance down to see what the pressure was, he almost gasped. The feelings surrounding him quickly flickered from confusion to warmth.  
  
 _Sociopath my arse,_ he thought affectionately.  
  
Sherlock was in fact fast asleep with his hand steadily clutching John's wrist. The man's face had been buried into his overlapping arms leaving only the tip of his nose peeking out from under his curly fringe. Taking in the sight before him, he remembered the utterly dismayed look he'd seen in those brilliant eyes the day before. Shock, panic, fear. Maybe it was the pain killers, maybe it was the feeling of being alive, maybe it was the urge to give comfort, or perhaps it was something else entirely, but John couldn't resist letting his left hand thread through the curly mop of hair.  
  
To Sherlock act so human was almost unheard of. Of course, he knew he wasn't always as cold as he seemed to be. That part of the puzzle that made up Sherlock Holmes wasn't available to the rest of the world. But the day before had been different. He was scared, and this time, it wasn't because he thought he was losing his mind, but losing John.  
  
'... _you are not allowed to die_...'  
  
The sound of whining door hinges brought him out of his thoughts, and John looked to see a young nurse come into the room, smiling gently at him. His hand was still softly running through dark locks, Sherlock's breathing deep and even. At this point, he couldn't care less how this looked to anyone in the galaxy right now - they didn't matter. Sherlock did.  
  
"Ho-"  
  
"Shhhh." John gestured his head down to the sleeping detective.  
  
The nurse just nodded in return and quietly walked over to him, smiling as he started his routine check of the machines. He spoke quietly as per John's request. "How are you feeling, Doctor Watson?"  
  
John paused to think for a moment. Emotionally - he didn't really know. Physically - well, that was a bit of a mystery as well since he felt entirely too drugged for it to even be possible to be awake at this moment.  
  
"As good as I could possibly be," he rasped, his voice heavy from disuse.  
  
"Do you want some breakfast?"  
  
"No, no thank you. I'm still a bit woozy." He was hungry, in fact, but hospital food didn't sound appealing in the least.  
  
"Just a few more minutes, and I'll be out of here. Your doctor should be in to talk to you later." The nurse smiled at him initially, but John saw his lips turn downward when his eyes sought out Sherlock. "I almost feel I should wake him up - he terrorized half of the staff and patients here for hours last night. That's the least he deserves. How do you put up with him?"  
  
John stared down at Sherlock where his fingers were still dancing through dark curls, softly enough to not wake him, but constant enough to let him know in his sleeping state that he was there.  
  
 _Oh, he's gonna hate me for this_ , he thought, and smiled fondly. _He may be an arrogant, demanding sod, but I love him_.  
  
And he did love Sherlock. This was the man who had given him the taste of adventure and something new he had longed for when he had returned from Afghanistan. A new life, a new perspective on the world, and a best friend. Life was never dull, and it was more than he could have ever asked for. Of course he loved him.  
  
All at once, it seemed, the missing pieces of the day played out as a recording in his mind. He remembered the shock, the worry, and then he remembered the kiss. Sherlock had held his face so gently, asking permission with his eyes, and John had no second thoughts about it with a _yes, yes, yes,_ radiating through his body. Everything had gone to hell around them, and at the grand finale of it all, Sherlock was there with him, and that's what mattered. It had been quick and chaste, and John remembered trying to pull Sherlock in, to never let him go. He could almost feel the blood drain from his face in shock at the memory. What did it mean for the two of them?  
  
The nurse smiled at him without receiving an answer. "Ah, no matter. Well, it seems I'm all done here. Just press the button there if you need anything." And out the door he went.  
  
Too many questions played across John's mind at once. Did they catch him? How bad are my wounds? When can I go home? Is Sherlock okay - physically and emotionally?  
  
He sat quietly for a while and pondered over all of it. He must have spent nearly fifteen minutes gaping at the ceiling with recurring questions floating through his mind, only to realize he didn't have the answer to anything. When he finally glanced down at Sherlock, he was met with two silver eyes fixated on him. A shade of pink suddenly crept up his neck. They locked gazes for a moment, his hand still tangled, frozen in his hair.   
  
John cleared his throat. "Ehm... Morning."  
  
"Happy birthday."  
  
"What?"  
  
His birthday, of course. With all the madness and chaos they'd been through, it had completely slipped his mind. The fact that Sherlock had remembered struck him in an odd way. Sure, the solar system wasn't of importance, but the man remembered John's birthday and how he took his coffee. Was he really that high up on Sherlock's list of things that mattered? Sherlock let go of the wrist he'd been holding onto and sat up carefully, letting John's hand slowly slide back down to the bed. He straightened out his jacket and coat before speaking again.  
  
"Really John, you chastise me for not having knowledge of the solar system, yet you can't seem to remember your own date of birth," he said, the teasing manner of it obvious even with his stony expression. "Interesting."  
  
"Yes. Well. I have been a bit preoccupied, if you haven't noticed."  
  
"Nonsense. You have been lying in that godforsaken bed for at least seven hours now, spending most of it sleeping."  
  
John instantly recognized Sherlock's coping mechanism through the haze of drugs. Sarcasm and stating the facts. He could almost smile. He turned away and stretched awkwardly, the tubes and machines hooked up to his body not allowing for much breathing room. He was thankful he hadn't been questioned on why his hand was in his hair, as he wasn't sure of the answer himself. Though he supposed it meant he couldn't ask why Sherlock's hand was around his wrist, knowing Sherlock would lie through his teeth about it anyway, though he had a good hunch. There seemed to be an understanding of silence between them, which was comforting, but it also left a burning question in his mind - what about the kiss?  
  
"How... How did you even get in this room?" he suddenly asked wearily. "Because really, I can't bail you from here."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, do give me more credit," he drawled out. "I simply told the staff that you are my partner."  
  
John sat there for an instant almost glaring at him before he broke into a fit of giggles. His lungs ached a bit with the quick intake of breath, but it was worth it.  
  
"What? I'm not seeing what's so amusing."  
  
"You told them we're partners - and you wonder why people keep insisting that we're a couple!"  
  
"No, _I_ don't, _you_ do."  
  
The giggles came to a stop as he chewed over what that was to mean. Between the statement and the kiss, he was in a mist of confusion. Had the lines of their friendship been blurred that much? He wasn't sure. Maybe it had always been that way and he was too quick to dismiss it all, failing to observe the facts. He waved the thoughts away, knowing he'd never get anywhere logical with the drugs pumping through his system.  
  
"What are you doing here, anyway?" he asked, intensely curious to his answer. He had always figured he'd end up in the hospital someday with the way they ran around the city, but he never once stopped to think of Sherlock being there with him. Not unless he was being a demanding patient, anyway.  
  
Sherlock narrowed his gaze. "John, though I do realize your intellect isn't up to par with my own, I do believe I just told -"  
  
"No, you told me _how_ you got in here," he corrected, shifting around in the thin sheets to sit up a bit more comfortably. "You didn't tell me _why_. I mean, you're the one who said crying at one's bedside wouldn't do anybody any good. So why are you here?"   
  
Several moments passed in silence, Sherlock's face contorting in an odd concentration. John watched the man next to him have a war with himself inside his mind - a battle between logic and emotions that he often kept at bay.  
  
"To prove you wrong."  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"You said you were dying, I said you weren't. Once again you were wrong and I was right. Here you've awoken next to me perfectly alive," Sherlock proudly explained. "Therefore, I've proved you wrong."  
  
"Sherlock..."  
  
"And I wasn't _crying_ , I was _sleeping_. Having no one around except morons and an unconscious friend makes for a rather boring way to spend your time."  
  
John studied him for a moment. His eyes were sharp but the slight bags underneath provided proof of worry and exhaustion, small flecks of ash on his coat, and his hair in complete disarray. John wasn't the only one who'd gone through hell yesterday, and he often wished he could get a completely honest answer out of him when it came to things like this. Sherlock may have been fooling himself, but John knew better than what he was letting on. Though he supposed complete honesty with such tedious things was just a bit too much to ask for. After a few moments of silence, Sherlock flicked his sight from John over to the door.  
  
"Do you wish for me to leave?"  
  
"No," he blurted out instantly in an almost knee-jerk reaction. "I'm glad you're here, actually. It's uh - it's not fun to wake up in a hospital with no one around."  
  
"Yes, well," Sherlock sniffed. "If you insist on my staying here, I suppose I could always get more parts from the morgue to experiment on."  
  
And John smiled. Finally a bit of normalcy. Eventually, the conversation turned a bit. They ended up arguing about which limbs could (or couldn't) be smuggled out of the morgue without being caught, and how unsanitary and rude it was (or wasn't) to bring body parts in to an injured, recovering man.  
  
"So you see, John, that's why it's important for me to have a decapitated head at all times!"  
  
"Obviously!" John burst out laughing again, but stopped to clutch at his torso which suddenly decided to remind him of one of the reasons why he was there in the first place. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Sherlock's eyes cautiously flicker from him, to the nurse call button, and back to him again. "It's alright, Sherlock, really just -"  
  
The sound of a clearing throat interrupted him.  
  
"Go away, Mycroft," Sherlock bit out without turning his head.  
  
"Pleasure to see you too, dear brother," came the smooth tones from the doorway.  
  
Mycroft, who had apparently appeared out of nowhere as per usual, shut the door behind him. He walked over to the bedside, his stern smile tightening on his face. "Hello, John. Got into a bit of trouble, I see. Feeling well?"  
  
"Actually, I j-"  
  
Sherlock cut him off. "What do you want, Mycroft?"  
  
The older Holmes let out a sigh. "Really Sherlock, is it so strange that I should want to check on John's well-being?"  
  
"Yes," John answered for him. Mycroft was always more concerned for the well-being of the country than the people in it. "What is it?"  
  
Mycroft leaned in heavily on his umbrella. "I really did come to see how you were, if you must know. And, I need to discuss some... matters with Sherlock." He eyed the both of them. "I knew he would be here, of course."  
  
"I have no time for whatever matters you may be referring to." Sherlock replied, tone full of annoyance.  
  
Mycroft merely raised his eyebrows and spoke again. "Oh, but I think you do. In fact, I'm rather sure of it." He gave his brother a once over. "Check your messages."  
  
Sherlock disgruntingly pulled his phone from his coat pocket and turned it on.  
  
"You've had your phone off this whole time? This day ought to go down in history," John joked. In all the time they had lived together, John had never known Sherlock to shut his phone off. The man was practically fused to it.   
  
Whatever was in that message made Sherlock's expression suddenly deadpan as he turned to face his brother.  
  
"Now, if you'll just be so kind as to come along with me, that would be splendid."  
  
The detective looked at John. His lips turned in an odd way as if he was fighting to keep words from slipping out of his mouth.  
  
"Go on, Sherlock." He motioned his head towards the door, not fond of watching his brain have a war with itself. "I'll still be here when you're done doing... whatever it is."  
  
Sherlock stood up and walked over to the door, then turned to face John. "Of course you will, where else could you be?" He paused for a split second before adding in "Idiot," with a hint of fondness rolling off the word as they disappeared down the corridor.  
  
John exhaled deeply before a sharp twinge of pain shot through his abdomen. He had been in pain since Mycroft walked in, funny how that worked. But, he really didn't feel like being scrutinized for needing anything. The deep aching all around his body continued for a few moments more before he gave in. He grunted, swallowed his pride, and hit the nurse call button with more force than necessary.

* * *

  
  
"Where is he?" Sherlock was once again demanding information, but this time from his brother. He had been so relieved not half an hour ago, and now his mood had done a tailspin.  
  
"Not here, obviously."  
  
"Well, isn't that pleasant," he growled. "Why even bring me here if he's not here? That was the whole reason you lured me into your miserable car in the first place, Mycroft."  
  
Mycroft said nothing as Sherlock glared at hm with fire in his eyes. The atmosphere in the room had gotten increasingly cold upon their arrival. They stood in Mycroft's office at The Diogenes Club, bickering at one another. Russell Travers had been promptly captured after the incident the day before and was now being held under the watch of high security, as per Mycroft's orders.  
  
"Alright, I'll go find him myself. Excuse me."  
  
He started in the direction of the door before the other man jammed his umbrella across the doorway, stopping him from going any farther.  
  
"No, you won't," Mycroft sighed. "And no, I won't tell you where. You're too..." He paused and looked into the air around them as if trying to grasp onto invisible words. "..emotionally invested."  
  
He turned back to his brother and scoffed at the words. "Me? Too _emotionally invested_?"  
  
"Yes, Sherlock, you are. I know you, and if I were to leave you alone with him, I have a fairly good idea as to what would happen."  
  
"You don't know a _thing_ ," he hissed with with his mouth twitching in anger.  
  
"Ah, but don't I?"  
  
It had been like this the whole way to the building as soon as Mycroft mentioned Sherlock's unkempt hair, at which Sherlock immediately spat back about his nearing lack-of. Sibling rivalry really wasn't helping anything. Sherlock had two goals at the moment: Get John well, and get to the loathsome man that was Russell Travers. Which had more priority, he wasn't entirely certain. But at the moment, Mycroft was getting in the way of both.  
  
"Here," Mycroft addressed as he walked over and pulled a large envelope off of his desk. "you'll be needing this."  
  
Sherlock eyed his brother suspiciously before snatching the envelope out of his hands. Inside were two plane tickets to some beach in America that sounded vaguely familiar. He immediately thought back to the last time his brother was involved with getting him plane tickets and nearly groaned.  
  
"Really, Mycroft, surely putting John and I on bomb riddled plane would be a bit too vengeful for whatever it is you're annoyed with." He shoved the envelope back into his brother's hands.  
  
The older Holmes sighed. "Oh please. I will take care of the matter at hand, I guarantee it. Meanwhile, it would be most... convenient... for Doctor Watson and yourself to be out of the country while the task is done, you see."  
  
"I could refuse."  
  
"You could - and I could send him to a prison in a different part of the world, unbeknownst to you. Your choice."  
  
He eyed him up and down. "You wouldn't."  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow in response. "Wouldn't I?"  
  
Sherlock drew in his bottom lip and bit down in thought.  
  
'... _he_ is _the British Government - when he's not too busy being the Secret Service or the CIA_...'  
  
Sometimes - and this was one of those times - he hated how much power Mycroft thought he had over him. He didn't have much, really, but this manipulative ultimatum was ridiculous. And all he could think of was John - and which would be better for him. He had, after all, mentioned needing a holiday not twenty-four hours ago - but to go to the other side of the Atlantic felt a bit too much. He could very well lobotomize himself at the possible boredom that would ensue, as it would take him away from his work. But John wanted, and possibly needed this. The order of importance of matters was really starting to puzzle him.  
  
"I'm sure Doctor Watson would be most appreciative of it, as most people would be."  
  
Sherlock repressed the growl in his throat. "John isn't most people."  
  
The smug know-it-all look he hated most crept upon his brother's face. Sherlock snatched the tickets out of his hand and started at the door again. Mycroft called out after him.  
  
"Have a pleasant trip, brother. And do fix your hair."  
  
Sherlock, who was striding through the room, stilled for a split second before crossing the threshold and slamming the door behind him.

* * *

  
  
"No Greg, I don't blame you at all. I think he was just..."  
  
"Manic?"  
  
"Always."  
  
Lestrade was standing at John's bedside, finally able to visit him without being condescended by Sherlock Holmes every few minutes. He seemed tired, yet he was smiling, a relief washing over his face as soon as he'd stepped into the room. A couple of hours had passed and the sun was shining brightly through the window at this point, warming the DI's features.  
  
"Yeah, well tell him that!"  
  
John smiled warmly. "If anything, it's my fault for not being able to see it coming."  
  
Lestrade shook his head. "Nah. Don't beat yourself up over it, the lunatics in this city seemed to be getting a bit smarter, don't they? Just take it easy and get back on your feet soon, yeah? Your flatmate is actually less annoying when you're around, believe it or not." He glanced at his watch. "I'd better be getting out of here. Be quick about the recovery, I mean it."  
  
John chuckled. "Yes, well. I'll try. Oh and, thank you for the crossword, it's nice to have something to do here besides watch television."  
  
"I'm sure, it's no problem. Just -"  
  
At that moment, Sherlock entered the room holding a bag of food. He said nothing, but kept his eyes fixed on Lestrade with a scowl on his face as he moved to the table at John's side. His mood practically radiated off of his body.  
  
Lestrade coughed awkwardly. "I'll um... See you later, John."  
  
"See you, Greg." John turned to Sherlock and spoke a few moments after the door had shut. "What was that about?" he asked, confused by the death glare he'd just seen plastered over Sherlock's face.  
  
"What?"  
  
"How you acted at Greg! He's our friend, Sherlock."  
  
He rolled his eyes. "He's your friend. He's my..." He waved his hands in front of him as if he were unable to think of an actual label for him.  
  
"That's nonsense and you know it." Lestrade was their friend, a good friend. And for all John knew, he probably saved Sherlock from himself more times than he could count. He wondered if Sherlock was being purposely being obtuse. He paused, the pieces falling into place before his eyes. "It wasn't his fault, you know," he reminded him softly.  
  
He said nothing, only sneaking a quick peek at him as he pulled the food from the bag. The steam immediately rose through the air, and half of John wished he could smell it if not for the oxygen tube.  
  
"You actually took the initiative to get us both food?" he asked, smiling in surprise, letting to subject drop.  
  
"Hospital meals aren't exactly appetizing, and you need to eat. Problem?"  
  
"No no, it's um. Thank you. How often do I have to get injured in order for miracles like this to happen?" John took a pause, thinking back to Baskerville, back to the one time Sherlock had actually gone out of his way to prepare something. "This isn't drugged, is it?"  
  
Sherlock gave him an unamused look as he handed over the takeout.  
  
"Sorry," he insisted, regretting the question. "You okay?"  
  
"Is that really high on your list of importance at the moment?" he asked in confusion.  
  
"You may be right," he began, "I may not be thinking at full capacity," Sherlock let out a hmph before John continued. "seeing as how apparently someone kept upping my dosage of pain medication throughout the night. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head with the feigned innocence of a child caught red handed. "Haven't the faintest," he answered, about ready to start on his lunch.  
  
John could still see the tiny smile forming at the corner of his mouth before it dropped back into the previous scowl. "Right, then," he acknowledged. "Sherlock," he said, reaching out to touch the cuff of his coat. Sherlock stopped what he was doing instantly, watching John. With all attention focused on him, John adopted a more serious tone in hopes to get him to talk. "Are you okay?"  
  
He sighed. "Seeing as how I'm currently not the one that's hospitalized, that's a rather ridiculous question."  
  
"Yesterday was -"  
  
Sherlock cut him off. "Tiresome is what yesterday was, though I made it through unscathed."  
  
"You did hit your head pretty -"  
  
He rolled his eyes. "My mind is fully functioning, if that's what you mean."  
  
"Are you going to let me finish a sentence?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock smirked. "you just finished that one. I'm fine, John. What's that?"  
  
"Hmm?" Sherlock had grabbed the card from his lap as he dug into his own lunch.  
  
"Oh, card from Greg. He didn't know whether to say 'Happy Birthday' or 'Get Well' so, that happened."  
  
The card in question in fact read out 'Have a pain free celebration'. He tossed the card back to his lap.  
  
"Charming."  
  
"Yes, well. Two stab wounds, a slight concussion, multiple bruises and lacerations, a gunshot graze, a bit of smoke inhalation, and blood loss - all in a day's work, isn't it?" he joked. "Happy bloody birthday to me." John could chuckle at his own predicament, but could see that Sherlock wasn't finding it a bit amusing. There was a hint of regret slipping through the impassive mask on his face, jumping out at him like a splash of color on a white wall. He did the only thing he could and changed the subject.  
  
"What did -"  
  
Before he could finish his sentence, Sherlock pulled a white envelope out of his coat and handed it over to John, urging him to open it. Inside he found a set of plane tickets in their names, and gave Sherlock a cautious look.  
  
"What's this, then?"  
  
"You wanted a holiday, did you not?"  
  
"Yes but -" John gave him a doubtful look. "we're going to America? Why?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock sat back in his chair. "no reason in particular."  
  
John knew better, but knowing Sherlock as he did, he really didn't feel like pressing the issue at the moment, so they ate their lunch in companionable silence.  
  
"So, Florida."  
  
Sherlock breathed out. "Oh yes. Annoying children, frustrating traffic, and blazing weather." He stopped, looking John dead in the eye with a wicked smirk. "Lovely place for executions."  
  
John grinned at him. "Can't wait. Though," he paused as he looked around the room, "we may be waiting a _bit_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the song "Only Time" by Enya


	3. Here Comes the Sun

John sat his suitcase down on the floor before he collapsed face first onto his bed in the hotel room, completely and utterly exhausted.  
  
John had spent a few more days in the hospital as a precaution to make sure his wounds would heal properly, and that his lungs were fully functioning. Harry had come to visit, which was tiring in itself. Molly brought him some flowers while Mrs. Hudson baked him some treats. Sherlock hadn't come back to see him after that first day, which he sort of expected, but he found himself a bit bored without his friend around. A lot of time was spent staring out the window and watching old television reruns. Really, he didn't feel very useful stuck in that bed, and was itching to get back out in the city. He actually found himself missing Sherlock and his often demanding self. It actually brought a smile up to his face the few times he'd gotten texts from the man.  
  
 _We're still out of pasta. And cheese. And bread._  
  
 _\- Go buy some._  
  
 _It's your turn._  
  
 _\- Sherlock, I'm still hospitalized, if you care about that at all._  
  
There had been an overly long pause between that text and that next. A long radio silence went on after that. He began to wonder if maybe it sounded a bit harsh, but it was Sherlock, after all. Surely he would know John was joking. Two hours had passed, and the text alert went off just as John was about to call him to make sure he was still alive, and not attacked by a gang of mobsters or whatever he was doing.  
  
 _No excuse._  
  
When he finally arrived home, fully prepared with lunch for them both and his prescriptions, Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa fast asleep. He had to have just finished a case, still fully dressed with his robe hanging haphazardly around his shoulders. Deciding on not disturbing the man, John sat his things down and headed for the shower. He was comforted by the warm water beading down his back and the irreplaceable feeling of 221B. He was still bruised, had many more stitches than he would have liked, and his throat was still a bit raspy from the smoke even days later - but he was alive and home. And it was all fine.  
  
He couldn't immediately get back to running around as both he and Sherlock would have liked, though, much to Sherlock's displeasure.  
  
"I knew they were all incompetent at that hospital," Sherlock had grumbled to him.  
  
So, he spent time working on cases at the flat via mobile. He used what free time he had to actually make sure they had everything they needed for the trip. He also took short walks to the park when he needed to get away for a bit, because one can only spend so much time in a place before going crazy. He even met a lovely woman - Mary. They smiled and laughed and chatted the afternoon away on a park bench one sunny day like old friends. It wasn't until after she was out of sight, however, that John realized he had forgotten to ask for her number. He was still mentally kicking himself for that.  
  
When the stitches were taken out and the time had finally come for them to leave London, Sherlock was anything but thrilled. Though he wouldn't admit it, John was actually kind of excited for the beach. For him, it would be nice to see sand in a place of paradise instead of bloodshed. But, getting there was another thing.  
  
They had an almost ten hour flight from London to Orlando. Though, Sherlock never fully explained why Mycroft was sending them to America, always changing the subject instead, so he let it go for the time being. And as for Sherlock, the lack of other people to deduce and entertain himself with had annoyed him to no end. He was rude, arrogant, and a complete showoff to the poor, unsuspecting steward. Much to his amusement, when John commented on the fact that the pilot's voice sounded almost like his, Sherlock took it as an insult and refused to talk to him for the rest of the flight and spent it brooding in his seat instead. So, same old Sherlock, really. Once there, they spent another tiring hour getting their luggage along with a car, and yet another hour long drive to their hotel as the sky opened, letting the rain come gushing down. The whole thing had been a bit tedious, to say the least.

That had been the past couple of weeks for him. And really, for a man who almost bled out in a burning, exploded building, he had nothing to complain about. So after twelve hours of traveling, including weather delays, time zone changes, and one irritable flatmate, the thought of finally collapsing onto his bed sounded like the best thing in the world. And so that's just what he did.  
  
Sherlock sat down his own luggage and did away with his coat and scarf, which John had deemed ridiculous in this weather. He perched on his designated bed opposite of John and stared out the sliding glass doors beyond the balcony to the dark waters of the beach.  
  
"Now what?"  
  
"Now," John muttered as he adjusted himself to get a better look at Sherlock, "we relax."  
  
"Ugh!" Sherlock dramatically flopped back onto his bed. "What's the point of being oceanside if we're going to spend it in here?"  
  
"Because it's nearly midnight and I'm tired," John mumbled. He waved his hand in a shooing motion. "You can go do whatever you want, I'm not forcing you to stay here with me."  
  
He saw only a moment of hesitation, but his mind was apparently made up. He watched as Sherlock got up and straightened out his suit jacket and headed directly for the door.  
  
"Where're you going?"  
  
"To do 'whatever I want' as you said. Don't wait up."  
  
"Alright fine," John sighed. "Just. Try not to intimidate the locals."  
  
"Hmph."  
  
The door closed behind him leaving the room peacefully silent. He turned and lay staring at the ceiling before finally closing his heavy eyelids. Not even ten minutes later, sleep completely overtook him.

* * *

 

_Give me something to work on from a distance so my brain will not rot. SH_

_It's almost five in the bloody morning on my day off! DI Lestrade_

_Not my problem. SH_

_Can't you just enjoy your time on holiday with John? DI Lestrade_

_Holiday, no. Give me something. SH_

_No, Sherlock. Try to for his sake you prat. I'm turning my phone off. Good bloody NIGHT. DI Lestrade_

Sherlock scowled at his phone once more before angrily shoving it into the pocket of his trousers. The scent of salty air and the drying rain splattered pavement filled his nose. The cool night breeze endlessly rolled off the waves and weaved its way through the darkened city. He had been walking up and down the lighted, palm tree infested strip for a bit, just wandering around. Expansive hotels and gift shops lined the way, brief breaks between the towering buildings giving him short glimpses of the turning tides of the Atlantic. A long journey was finally over and he was eager to get some sort of stimulus even if that just meant finding things about a new place.

After he left John's hospital room that day, he threw himself into investigating any case he could get his hands on, big or small. He even made attempts to track down Moriarty's whereabouts to no avail. They both knew it was just a matter of time until he showed up in their lives again, willing to take both of them out with a simple snap of his fingers. John had nearly slipped away once and he was determined not to let it happen again. Every little detail had been saved, every detail from the clothes they'd been wearing to the precise moment John's chest stopped moving. It was too important for his brain to forget, so he locked it away, never daring to scratch at the itch that presented itself. With Moriarty out there waiting for the right moment, he couldn't let himself wander into the idea that the next time something similar happened, it would be too late. 

When John arrived home still stitched and bruised, his anger at that day became refueled. He ended up stomping out of the flat, leaving a very confused John behind. It took all that he could to not find Russell Travers, so he distracted himself to the best of his abilities, focusing on his other work instead. Or, he tried to at least. None of it was enough to keep him fully occupied, and some hours were spent with John in the flat.

He often found himself gauging John's recovery and the man in question himself. He caught himself studying his friend in ways he'd never done before - mainly because he trusted him fully and he didn't need to. But now, he was studying his features - the stormy blue eyes, the soft blond hair with flecks of grey, and the slightly crooked closed mouth smile he did, yes _that one_ , when he was amused. John had apparently noticed this, too.

"What is it? Have I got something on my face?"

"I'm bored."

"So, what? Staring at me until I do something about it?"

"... Yes."

And with those times, he got out of the flat as quickly as he could and sent John on wild goose chases for unimportant clues in ridiculously easy cases to keep him distracted while he thought. If he was honest with himself, which he often was, he didn't know what exactly he was feeling. The kiss was a constant thought, rattling around and demanding attention, but he refused to give in. He never said anything and John never asked. Unsure if he even remembered, there was really no point in bringing it up. Their friendship, from Sherlock's view, had surpassed many others he had witnessed throughout the years. Of course, people say they would die for a friend, but how many of them truly would? How many people would stare down the barrel of a gun for the life of another?  
  
The relationship between them was an uncharted territory, one he wasn't willing to throw a bomb into, so he kept quiet. At first, he brushed it off as to John having a close call, but as he started healing, it still stuck with him. It was rather annoying that he didn't know what was going on inside of his own head. And now - a trip with just John for a week - there was only so much time he would be able to spend away from him. He needed a case, just _something_ to work with.

Feelings. Emotions. Sentiment.  
  
Dangerous. Distracting. Threatening.

It wasn't that he couldn't view things in such a way, caring and all that. It was that doing so would put other things at risk, so why even bother? He had learned this lesson as a small child and had vowed not to make such a mistake for himself again. In Sherlock's mind, the reward of satisfaction and knowledge in most situations would outweigh the cost of not allowing himself to care.

Except now, apparently. And that was extremely frustrating to him.

He sighed and made the long walk back to the hotel room where his flatmate had already been fast asleep for some time. He finally lay down with his eyes shut and tried to think about something, anything, that would explain what was happening.

The answer had finally come by the time unconsciousness swept over him.

* * *

 

John basked in the warm afternoon sunlight on the beach, opting for a plain white shirt and comfortable shorts instead of his regular jeans and jumper. Sherlock had still been fast asleep late in the morning even after he finished showering. So, John let him be and made his way down to the white, soft sands of the shore, relaxing in one of the chairs the hotel provided near the long wooden pier. Children were laughing with delight, seagulls were soaring high above their heads, and waves were teasing the shoreline. He closed his eyes and reclined just to let the day soak in. This right here, this was paradise.

The day passed on at a languid pace, the lovely sounds of the crashing water causing him to drift in and out of sleep. At some point late in the afternoon, the sunlight bleeding through his lids suddenly dimmed. He opened his eyes and looked up to see Sherlock looming over him with wind tousled hair and a furrowed brow. He was barefoot in the sand with his hands tucked in the pockets of his black trousers. His crisp white shirt had been lef untucked, rolled up at his elbows, and unbuttoned a bit more than usual with a larger expanse of his chest peeking out behind the cloth. John's mouth suddenly went dry with the image presented before him.

John's mind was yelling at him - _Damn it, not now, and not bloody here!_

"What?" Sherlock asked as he knitted his brow, his voice seemingly an octave lower than usual.

"What, ah." John cleared his throat. "What are you doing?"

"Blending in, obviously. I've been up and down this beach all afternoon, I'd say so far so good."

"That's not really blending..." he trailed off, attempting to get his mind on track. "Anyway, we're not on a case."

"We could be," Sherlock pointed out. "World's Most Famous Beach? There has to be a homicide or a scandal or even a theft somewhere." He sat down in the chair beside him with a heavy sigh. "For the sake of my mind, there has to be," he muttered, his hands ruffling through his hair.

"Can't you just relax for even five minutes?"

"Hmm. Not really my area."

"Right." John adjusted himself comfortably in his chair, leaning back and inclining his head slightly to observe Sherlock, who was in turn observing the world around them. He watched his eyes flicker around from person to person, using his available senses to soak up any and all information, no doubt. What it must be like to be on overdrive 24/7, never able to even breathe in peace. "It never stops, does it?" he asked quietly after a few moments.  
  
"No," Sherlock admitted, his gaze meeting John's. There was a touch of softness around his eyes, obvious in the bright sunshine beating down upon them. "An out of control engine with only a few ways to kill it."

As John chewed over his words, a child's screams pierced through air causing both men to quickly turn in the direction of the disturbance. A little girl who couldn't have been more than four years was sat down where the water met the sand, tears streaming down her cheeks. Knocked down by a wave, it seemed. Her apparent mother quickly appeared alongside her. Sherlock scoffed at first, but became silent as the mother kissed her reddened knee on which she had fallen, and her cries became sniffles which turned into a smile.

"What's she doing?"

John turned and examined him for a moment. "What, your genius brain doesn't know about the healing power of kisses?"

He studied him oddly.

"No no, it's true! They're powerful at healing wounds and fixing a broken dam of tears." John laughed. "You should know this, having given Molly a kiss at Christmas."

"That was for an apology, not a physical ailment." The child in the distance started giggling again as she walked across the sands with her mother. "Psychological nonsense, this is."

"Right. Delete being a kid, did you?"

Sherlock sat impassively and stared out into the open waters in silence. Either he hadn't heard him, which was doubtful, or he was ignoring, which was highly likely. Eventually, he gave one shake of his head. "No."

John hesitated. He had only heard bits and pieces of Sherlock's younger days, mostly in disjointed stories from Mycroft. His relationship with his brother was difficult at best, and he never spoke of his parents, save for the night of their first case. "Sherlock," he urged, "what kind of childhood did you have, exactly?"

"Irrelevant," he replied immediately.

"Can you answer me with more than one word?"

"Yes." He sat up straighter. "But, I don't see what my childhood has to do with anything. They are literally useless and trivial facts, John. Hungry?"

He opened his mouth to say something, but slowly shut it again and cleared his throat. Best not push the question. "Yeah, a bit. There's a restaurant on the pier, actually. Shall we?"

The two men walked side by side along the water's edge.

"I love being oceanside," said John. The cold waves softly lapped at them as they walked. The salty water sloshed around their ankles with their movements, the darkened, shell sprinkled sand sinking slightly with every step. "It's almost as if I'm walking along the edge of the world." Sherlock said nothing but snickered, a mirthful grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yes, genius," John mocked, "I know it's not flat. Shut up."  
  
"Never said a word."

"Yeah, well -"

Sherlock cut him off. "What's that?"

"Where?"

John apparently veered off in the wrong direction, so Sherlock had yanked his arm to pull him the right way. Unfortunately for John, it caused him to lose his balance, and the former army doctor landed back first into the cool waters.

"Sherlock!"

He didn't seem phased. "What? It's hardly my fault you've forgotten how to walk in the sand."

John sat in the water and simmered for a moment and waited. A man of moral and of revenge, he couldn't let him get away so easily. The perfect opportunity arrived when Sherlock turned to point at whatever it was that caught his attention in the first place. John leapt up from the salt lined sea and tackled his friend down into the shallow water.

John rocked back onto his knees while Sherlock launched upwards, ridding the bits of saltwater from his lungs.

"This is childish!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"You are a child!" John fired right back at him.

"You're an idiot!"

"You're a git!"

Sherlock suddenly splashed his face full of water and attempted an escape. An escape in the sea, of course, didn't last all too long. John chased him down to waist high water, using his strength to surge forward, his arms wrapping around Sherlock as he tackled him again. Both men went under the waves. Upon coming back up, they were trying to get back at one another like two overgrown schoolboys, chasing and attacking each other in the sea, neither getting the upper hand. At one point, they both got swept under the crashing waves, leaving them both gasping for air and disoriented. By the time they had managed it back to relatively dry sand with their clothes clinging to their skin, they were soaked to the bone and exhausted.

Sherlock planted himself down on the sand and ran his fingers through his newly matted curls. John had lay back resting on his elbows, trying to get his breath back.

"You're ridiculous," Sherlock panted as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"As are you," John replied breathlessly.

Their eyes met, and all was lost. He saw as Sherlock tried to fight the smile growing on him, but it was pointless. The smile melted into giggles, and soon full out laughter erupted from both of them. It was the most ridiculous, stupid, and pointless thing they'd ever done, and he found it hard to stop laughing at the entire situation. That was just what they needed after the tense weeks they had, and the ice covering Sherlock's mood had finally been chipped away at their impomptu battle. Finally being free to laugh and smile with him again was refreshing.

"You know," he began, calming himself, "I believe that's the first time I've actually heard you laugh in a couple of weeks, now."

Sherlock stood up, extending his hand to John. "I don't know what you're on about."

John took Sherlock's hand, pulling himself off of the water's edge. He tried to rid his clothes of the clumps of wet sand the best he could, but it was rather pointless. They started towards the pier again. John bit his lip, thinking of how to get on with it. Best be blunt, he thought. "It wasn't your fault, you know." he said softly.

Sherlock stuffed his hands into the sodden pockets of his trousers and shrugged. "I never insinuated that it was." They needed no further explanation of it. The event they never spoke of. But John had seen the fear in his eyes that day, and the guilt written on his features since. Small little details in his stature that only John would notice after living with him for so long, and oh did he notice. It wasn't his fault, truly. It was a combination of events that led up to it, was all.

And damn it all he was going to let his best friend truly think it was of his own doing.

"I know, but, look." He hesitated briefly, but needed to get it out. "You really had nothing to do with it."

"Oh but didn't I?" Sherlock replied incredulously, still looking ahead as they walked. His facial muscles tightened. "Look, it doesn't matter now. You're alive and well. It's fine."  
  
"It does matter." John stepped ahead and turned to Sherlock, stopping him in his tracks mere steps away from the pier. He reached out and grasped his arms firmly and looked straight at him. "You didn't land me on death's door. It wasn't your fault." Sherlock averted his gaze to the pier again. "Look at me." It took a moment, but John stood firm, refusing to let go of him or even speak until Sherlock gave him his attention. "I will keep repeating this until you get it through to your massive brain. Do you understand? It. Was not. Your fault."

Sherlock nodded once, his face slipping back into its usual impassiveness. "Yes... Good. Shall we go eat now or do you have a motivational speech planned as well?"

John rolled his eyes and stepped onto the pier. "I will throw you into the ocean, Sherlock Holmes," he warned, pointing at him. "Then you can swim back to England."

"You wouldn't," Sherlock replied, "being mad enough to already put up with me in the first place after all this time. No use in getting rid of me now," he acknowledged.

"I suppose that's true," John replied with a knowing grin as they sought out a table.  
  
Dinner went as well as one could have hoped. Sherlock spent much of his time observing the beach goers and other tourists around them, and John didn't even bother to try to stop him this time. Whatever he needed to do to not burn down their hotel out of raging boredom, he could handle. Besides, they'd never see any of these people again.He actually went along with the deductions and couldn't help chuckling at some of the things he was hearing, which made a pleased smirk form upon Sherlock's lips. The detective also spent a bit of time mocking the restaurant as a whole, though that came to an end once he finally tasted his food. Time drifted on through their meal as the sun started its descent behind the buildings of the city. Their clothes and hair thankfully dried out with the warm coastal breeze as they sat around, people watching.

After, they had walked down the lengthy pier a ways to where people were still casting out their fishing rods for the the last time of the day. Sherlock leaned against the framing of the barriers to overlook the sea. Many were packing up their things to head to the lit up boardwalk or whatever else they could possibly find entertaining. The skies were growing darker, the orange and purple clouds losing their hues the setting sun cast a warm glow on everything before disappearing over the horizon. John leaned in as well, clasping his hands together while gazing around at the scenery.

"What are you smirking about?"

"Those girls," Sherlock replied, casting his eyes to the left. John followed the movement and saw two girls in their early twenties - one with rich brown skin and raven hair, and another with a milkier tone and shining auburn hair. They were headed their direction and whispering at one another. "They've been watching us since the beach. I believe they're coming to talk to you."

"Oh yes?" John beamed.

"Yes. But you won't like what they have to say," Sherlock replied.

John knitted his eyebrows together. He was just about to ask what he meant, but it was too late as the girls were already there.

"Hi!" the auburn girl piped up.

"Erm... Hello." John responded, now a bit weary.

"We just wanted to tell you that we think you and your boyfriend are adorable!"

"Yeah!" the other girl added "Really cute!"

All he could do was stare blankly for a second "We're actually - ah - " He took in the happiness upon their faces. _Oh, hell_. "Thank you," he said, smiling politely.

They looked pleased. They nodded, and started walking away, giggling about his accent.

"Do you hear that, John? You're _adorable_!" Sherlock said as he watched him, purposely drawing out the last word.

John scoffed. "I am not a-- I was a soldier for God's sake!" he huffed. "They were obviously mistaken as you're not adorable either, you're more of an annoying dick sometimes."

A deep chuckle emerged from Sherlock's throat. "Probably. Though on the contrary, you do have some quite endearing qualities, soldier or not."  
  
Sherlock calling him endearing was something he never expected. Though, perhaps things had changed between them. Neither of them dared to mention the kiss, sweeping it up under the rug and soldiering on as if nothing ever happened. But, it _had_ happened, and the thought jumped out at him in unsuspecting ways. Sure, Sherlock was his best friend, almost his other half of sorts, he felt. John found him attractive, but pushed the thought far away, fearing that stepping into anything would ruin the dynamic they had. Had it always been like this, the two of them teasing the boundary line of what they were? Or was he just becoming better at noticing it after the incident? On one hand, it could be the most amazing thing. On the other, everything could be lost. What then? He didn't know, and God, that was a terrifying realization.   
  
"Meaning?" he inquired, wanting to attempt to get to the bottom of things.

"John." Sherlock's tone quickly changed to that of a more serious manner, grabbing his attention immediately. His body stiffened as well as his eyes grew wide. "Please tell me - do you see what I see?" One hand pressed lightly along his back as Sherlock pointed down at the water. "There!"

He leaned over the edge a bit more just to see exactly what he was talking about when he spotted it. It was hard to tell from the distance, but there was something being tossed about in the crashing waves about twenty feet from shore.

_That can't be..._

"Come on, John!"

Wasting no time, he was right on Sherlock's heels as they raced down the aged wood, bumping into passersby as they went. Once they reached the water's edge, it was confirmed. There was a body being swept back to the sands. The people that were left along the beach were either completely oblivious or too enthralled in their own evenings to notice it.

Sherlock immediately ran out to where it was bobbing along in ankle deep water to pull it in, with John following behind. The good doctor had no need to check for a pulse as the obvious was laid out in front of him. Male - mid twenties, been dead for some time judging by paleness of his skin and the state of rigor mortis.

"We need to call the authorities, Sherlock."

The man in question had already crouched down and began examining the body just as he would any other case. Checking for marks, things in his pockets, the state of his clothing, the usual..

"Sherlock!" John hissed at him, observing their surroundings.

"Yes, fine," he said, waving a dismissive hand in front of him. "Give me a minute."

John was exasperated. "We can't do this here, this isn't London, the police in this area don't know us."

Sherlock glanced up from his position. "Exactly!" he exclaimed excitedly. "I'll leave them to their assumptions after I gather some information. An unexpected case! Love this!"

John ran his hand down his face and crouched along with him to try and obscure the body the best he could. A few minutes passed when finally Sherlock stood.

"Alright. Contact the authorities now if you wish."

John glanced around and found a man talking on a mobile phone. "Excuse me!" he shouted as he jogged across the sand to grab his attention. "We need some help!"

The police were contacted and on their way to the beach. When John went to seek out Sherlock, he had already vanished. Of course _. Damn it._ There weren't many options left for him, so he begrudgingly made his way back to the hotel room.

* * *

  
  
Sherlock had quickly made his way back to the hotel as soon as John had run for help. This was brilliant! This way, he got a case and John got a holiday. Everyone wins.  
  
Almost.

He would still much rather have been in London, but that would have to do. He ended up in the chilly hotel lobby staring at the multiple brochures, shuddering as his bare feet hit the cold tile. He didn't have the patience to read every one on the spot, so he hastily gathered one of each and went back to the room. There, he spread them all out over his own bed and began reading through them. Not the best start to a case, but he was making due with what he had. John had entered the room about twenty minutes later.

He looked at him expectantly as he shut the door behind him. "Well?"

"Well what?" John asked tiredly, sitting on his bed.

"Did you talk to the police, get any information?"

"No," he answered flatly as he flopped back onto his bed.

He looked away from the chaos on his own bed to John. "Why not?"

"Because," he replied, annoyed, "I want to be involved in this as little as possible."

"Mm. I see," Sherlock said, turning back to the brochures. "So is that to mean you're not willing to help me solve this?"

"No."

"No you won't or no it doesn't mean you won't? Your use of language can really be difficult to determine."

"Good." A shifting of covers told him that John had sat back up. "Yes, I'll help you," he sighed. "Don't I always?"

Satisfied, Sherlock nodded once and began combing through a brochure.

"Besides... Can't let you go around having all the fun," John teased.

And Sherlock half smiled the way always he did when John couldn't see, though that was perhaps always the point.

"I don't think we should really get involved with the police."

"I wholeheartedly agree," Sherlock replied. "We work with enough idiots in London, I think we can do just fine without them here."

"You're so sure, are you?"

"Always."

"No, not always."

There was a lightness to John's voice, but it didn't make a difference. He closed his eyes for a moment, pushing back the traces of irritated confusion that still lingered in his brain after the incident. He took a deep breath, shaking it off. _Focus._

"What are you doing, anyway?" John asked thoughtfully.

"The body we found. He had to have been quite a ways away from the shoreline when he died, yes? Or at least when his body was dumped. Perhaps one of these companies that cater to tourists are trying to cover something up."

"Ah." He got up from his bed and walked over to his friend, examining the colorful papers along with him. "I hear about things like this all the time, they care more about covering their backsides than actual people."

He turned back to John. "The victim -"

John stopped him before he could go any further. "Wait. Have you thought that this may be a suicide? I mean think about it." John crossed his arms. "Man takes a boat or what have you just far enough away from land and suspicion and could, I don't know, jump off and purposely drown himself. It's happened before."  
  
"And I'm sure it will happen again," he stated, "but that can't be it. Not enough fluid in his lungs, he was dead before he hit the water."

"Well, this sounds familiar!" John responded, slightly miffed. "You know, once, just once, I'd like to be near the water without a body showing up. Just one time."  
  
"Try the bathroom," Sherlock said, inclining his head towards the door. "I hear that it's relatively death free at the moment."

John gave a slight shake of the head. "Go on," he gestured. "What do you think it was?"

"No idea. Not yet anyway. Need more data." He scrubbed his hands through his hair before motioning at the papers. "There's nothing more I can do tonight until they release the identity of the man we found. Most likely will be all over the news come morning once they've contacted the family, I'm sure. If there's anything this country loves, it's a good media story over a possible homicide."

"We're not even sure it _was_ homicide," John pointed out.

"Well, it wasn't suicide."

"Could have been an accident? Like you said, one of the companies could be covering something up."

"It's a possibility, yes. But I'm not sure. It's wrong to theorize without all the facts." Sherlock looked around at the room and back to himself. Well, the state of his clothing, anyway."I think I'm off for a shower. Quieter place to think."

"Suit yourself." John replied as he went back to his bed, reclining before switching on the television.  
  
The shower didn't produce many ideas, actually, but was still rather nice as now he wasn't covered in salt. He donned his clean pajamas and opened the door to the main part of the room, letting the steam roll through the door. He stepped into the bedroom area and stood, staring at John.

"What?"

"I don't know what to do now," he admitted. "I could go out, but at this point in time nearly everyone in this town is intoxicated, and it's highly annoying. Morning is too far away."

"Hmm. Well, you could watch telly with me?"

"Oh, please." Sherlock scoffed at the idea.

"Come on!" John boasted.  
  
He gave the area around them a once over before scooting to one side of his bed. Sherlock's bed was still covered in brochures and would remain that way for some time. He patted the mattress as an invitation, but Sherlock didn't move, his feet feeling glued on the spot. He wondered - did John remember, and was this all a play at something?  
  
"What?" John asked, breaking the silence between them.

 _Perhaps not._ Sherlock eyed him up and down, then raised a suspicious eyebrow. "People might talk."

"Yeah, well." John just gave a shake of his head. "Come on. Do you want to watch this with me or not?"

"Not in the least," Sherlock drawled out. "But I suppose it will do." He climbed onto the bed and reclined next to John.

"I think you may not despise this one as much as the others I watch."

"So sure of that, are you?" He asked, looking at his friend.

"Shh, it's back on!"

"Ridiculous."

But he didn't utter another word. Come next commercial break, John grinned at him.

"What?"

"I've done the impossible. I've found a program that Sherlock Holmes enjoys! I should get a medal for this."

"Hardly." He exhaled. "I suppose this means you're now going to attempt to try to get my attention with other things as well."

"Nah." John crossed his arms over his chest. "This is good enough for now," he yawned.

Come the commercial break after that, John was fast asleep. His arms were still crossed and his head had lolled slightly to the side, but his breathing was deep and even. Sherlock couldn't really blame him, as it would take him a couple of days to adjust to the jet lag. Quietly as not to disturb him, Sherlock got up and padded around to his laptop left at the desk earlier in the morning, He climbed back onto the mattress and returned his attention to the program playing on the television. Well, some of it, anyway. His eyes flickered between his laptop screen and what he proclaimed 'the idiot box'. The night set in with him partly watching the program, partly finding out information about the city and people in it. It may not be the best solution for his mind, but it could do. He found he was surprisingly rather enjoying program.

He continued watching and researching throughout the night with John sleeping peacefully at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the song "Here Comes the Sun" by The Beatles


	4. Beyond the Sea

"You shot him."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Travers," Sherlock replied, not bothering to look up from his laptop. "You shot him in the knee."  
  
"Oh," John breathed in surprise. "Yes. I did. Didn't have much of a choice," he told him. "Steal the case notes from Greg, did you?"   
  
"No," he stated flatly as he pecked away at his keyboard. They had been to so many attractions in the past few days, endlessly questioning attendants, but no luck was to be had. It seemed they were at a dead end until the man's name had been released earlier in the afternoon. Zachary Clayton had been his name, all of twenty-three years old, and the police had no leads whatsoever on his death.  
  
Sherlock's eyes were hard, focused on the object in front of him, but his voice was far away sounding. "I saw him limping away."  
  
"And you didn't go after him?" Out of the corner of his eye he could see John shake his head. "He barely made it a block away before he was caught, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Easy catch." He shuffled around the endless amount of brochures on the desk he sat at.  
  
"I told you he was stupid," he muttered, raising an eyebrow. "Besides, I do recall being a bit preoccupied."  
  
"Yeah, well, either way," John said, taking a break to stand and stretch, his joints clicking in the process. "I'd have thought capturing him yourself would have been the most important thing."  
  
Sherlock immediately stopped typing and stared at John in surprise. Did he really think capturing a criminal was more important than his life? He was wrong, so wrong. Sherlock opened his mouth to prove him otherwise, but promptly snapped it shut. It could wait until later. Right now, they really needed to get on with this case. They only had about a day and a half left at the beach before heading home, and he was determined to figure it all out. Finally, _finally_ , the webpage opened to what he was looking for. He chuckled as he pulled out his phone and dialed the number on the screen.  
  
John's face had a look of half-concern, half-confusion that he often sported when Sherlock failed to explain his methods. "What is it?" he asked as he walked over, perching himself on the edge of the bed beside him. "Got something?"  
  
"Oh yes," Sherlock replied as he motioned at the bright screen. "Teenagers and young adults among others - they like to boast about what they're doing at any given moment. Every unimportant detail of their dull lives get posted to social media and -"  
  
"Wait, wait. You didn't hack into this kid's profile did you?"  
  
"No need to," he said, pressing the phone to his ear as it began to ring. "He has it set to public, as well as the majority of his friends."  
  
"But what -"  
  
 _Always so full of questions_. Sherlock cut him off with a shooing of his hand as the line picked up. The lies flowed smoothly as they rolled off the tip of his tongue, the man on the receiving end believing every word he said. He drawled out his story in a generic southern American accent, just typical enough to fool the average person. John gaped at him a while before seemingly giving up. Really, one would think he'd come to expect this sort of behavior by now.  
  
"Who was that, then?" John asked the moment he hung up.  
  
"Sam Miller," he replied. "Best friend of our victim, Zachary Clayton - obvious from the amount of photos they share in various places." Deft fingers pecked away at the keyboard as image after image began to flow across the screen in explanation. "It seems Zachary had plans to go out of town on his motorbike which currently resides at Sam's house." Sherlock could hear the silent 'How do you know that?' forming in John's mind, so he chose to go on rather than wait to hear it. "Here." He motioned to the screen as he pulled up Zachary's public profile. The page included boasting posts about his plans, random photos, mapped out locations, and a conversation between the two friends about the motorbike.  
  
"You don't think he's a suspect," John stated as fact.  
  
Sherlock grinned. They had come to read each other so well, something he was beyond pleased with. That's how it worked between them. No matter the situation, they immediately understood one another, something Sherlock had never found in anyone else, and he wouldn't have it any other way, to be honest. "Doubtful," came his answer. "He seems too grief stricken. Zachary's girlfriend, however..." he trailed off as he clicked onto another profile.  
  
A low grumble of irritation overtook him as he realized the profile was locked, and her profile image was a group photo at the beach. That told him absolutely nothing!  
  
John's eyes flicked from the laptop screen back to Sherlock. "So, what now?"  
  
Sherlock sighed. He hated not knowing what to do next. A low rumble from John's stomach suddenly filled the air between them as John turned away, and he realized it had been a while since they had last eaten. Sherlock would be fine without food for a while longer, but he needed to make sure John was alright. That was his priority, always. Still yet, it gave him an idea. Clicking back through the pages, Sherlock returned to Zachary's where he found a map referencing to the recent places he'd been.  
  
"It was said that he was last seen with his girlfriend, correct?" John made a noise of agreement so he continued. "I say we start here." He pointed to a particular location on the map, a local restaurant with a time stamp of the afternoon prior to the day his body was found. The perfect way to kill two birds with one stone.  
  
They ended up hailing a cab to the restaurant in question as the evening started to settle in, dragging away the humidity of the day. It was a nice place, a cozy, quiet setting with waiters and waitresses alike in dress shirts and ties, elegant cloth draped over every little table. A romantic setting, then. Perhaps he was preparing to propose?  
  
As John ordered his dinner, Sherlock sneakily gathered information with his observations. Countless whispers and endless chatter floated about the place between coworkers. There had been talk of investigators dropping by, and silent worry written across their faces, undoubtedly on edge about a body being found on the beach. Surely, that wouldn't be good for the local tourism. Sherlock steepled his hands in front of him, leaving John to awkwardly read the drinks menu from front to back. From what he could tell, it seemed Zachary had taken his girlfriend, Amy, out for dinner, but she seemed incredibly upset the entire evening.  
  
"Could have been the girlfriend," Sherlock muttered to himself. "But why?"  
  
"Could have been his friend," John pointed out to him.  
  
"Doubtful."  
  
"And why would his girlfriend murder him, then?"  
  
"Depends on the motive."  
  
"Here you go, sir," their waitress said as she appeared, her jet black hair swaying as she sat down John's steaming plate of food in front of him. He thanked her, obviously ready to dig in as he'd had nothing to eat the entire afternoon. The waitress stood there shooting John a sultry grin and lightly moved her hand over his, asking if there was anything else she could do.   
  
Sherlock watched John's reaction closely, abruptly torn away from the case as a pang of emotion rocketed through him. Anger? Jealousy? John smiled politely and waved her off and began eating as if nothing had happened.  
  
All Sherlock could do was stare, his mouth set into a firm line to hold back any slip of the tongue.  
  
A few moments of tense silence passed before John sat his utensils down. "You okay?" he asked, his voice full of concern.  
  
But nothing _had_ happened, right? God, it was becoming a whirlwind of confusion. "Fine," he answered a bit too swiftly. He took a breath and relaxed marginally as their waitress disappeared from his view, but John was still eyeing him cautiously. "I'm fine," he said again in a softer tone. "It seems our waitress has taken to you." It was meant to be stated as a fact, perhaps with an air of annoyance about it, but Sherlock could feel the betrayal of the true motive behind his words slipping out before he could catch them.  
  
"Probably the accent," John mused, taking a bite of his dinner.  
  
"Is that all?"  
  
John met his gaze and nodded as he swallowed down his food. "It's not me, it's what she hears. If she heard your voice..." he trailed off as he turned his attention back to his plate, shaking his head with the slightest of smiles forming on his face.  
  
Sherlock lowered hiis brow. "My voice?" he questioned. John's ears reddened at the tips.  
  
Clinking of silverware and the soft music playing over the sound system filled the place as Sherlock's mind came to a crawl. The sun was starting to set, and the windows from the side of the room gave out a stunning view of the city streets as the pink hues filtered in. The setting suddenly felt warm and heavy.  
  
"Why wouldn't it be you?" Sherlock asked suddenly, his mind demanding an answer he didn't know he wanted.  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"The attraction," he explained. "Why wouldn't it be you? You're..." The words fell through the empty air, stumbling their way from Sherlock's mouth to John's ears. Sherlock's lips parted slightly in surprise of what he was saying. What _was_ he saying? John's gaze tore away from his food and focused on Sherlock as his brow knitted.  
  
He had accidentally wound up on the thin line of what they were, and he he was losing his balance quickly.  
  
"I'm what?" John asked quietly. His dark eyes shined in the light of the setting sun, orbs of blue floating amid a sea of pink. Sherlock could almost feel the burn as they flickered briefly to his lips and back to him, black pupils widening with the gesture, and Sherlock was lost, utterly and completely lost.  
  
The buzzing of his phone on the table pulled him out of the situation, and he internally thanked the cause as he immediately swooped it up. Irritation rattled through him as he read the screen. "That doesn't make any sense!" he exclaimed as he tossed his phone down, leaving it to clatter onto the table. Immediately, he threw himself back into the work. Constant, logical, and willing. Work was familiar, safe. Everything else could wait, it would have to. He slid the phone around to John to share in his frustration. "It was neither of them. The girlfriend's _sister_ just admitted to it, look!"  
  
"And you're angry because she admitted to it?"  
  
"No, because her story doesn't make any sense," he replied. "She claims to have confronted him near his home. In her statement, she claims Zachary began to have an asthma attack. She panicked and ran, leaving him to die. End of story."  
  
"But his body was found in the -"  
  
"Yes, I know!" He waved his hands in an exasperated motion before sinking back into his seat.  
  
John took in their surroundings wearily. "Sherlock," he urged gently, "calm down."  
  
"But who would dump the body into the ocean? And why?" He became annoyed. The restaurant had began to grow quiet at his outburst, but he couldn't care less. "Good samaritan disposing of a corpse?"  
  
John dragged his hand over his face. "Sherlock," he started, "it's entirely possible she's lying, don't work yourself up over it. I know you." Sherlock stared at him. "I know you and I know you want to solve this before we go home, and you will. I believe that. But could you do it without getting us kicked out of another restaurant?"  
  
He lowered his voice. "There were markings on his body that -"   
  
John cut in, holding up his hand momentarily to stop Sherlock. "Let me finish a meal for once and we can get back to the hotel."  
  
"Oh good, so you do follow."  
  
"No," he laughed mockingly as he shook his head. "But I know exactly what that look on your face means."  
  
"Which is?"  
  
"That you're a step ahead of me and yet, annoyingly, you've got me hanging onto your coattails to catch up."  
  
Sherlock blinked at him.  
  
"Suppose she's lying. Why would her sister kill her boyfriend - if she's killed him?"  
  
"The motives vary. Could have been a number of things - perhaps it was self defense, or maybe rage, jealousy, money," he began rattling off a list as his phone buzzed again, bringing up the message he'd been waiting for.  
  
"Or love," John acknowledged as he leaned back in his seat. "People will kill for those they love. Happens all the time." He picked at his food and absentmindedly downed another mouthful.  
  
John's words came to him the exact moment he read the message on his phone, and suddenly, his world began spinning wildly.  
  
Travers is no more.  
It is done.  
MH

* * *

"I don't see the problem."  
  
John pinched the bridge of his nose. "The problem, Sherlock," he began as he perched on the edge of his hotel bed, "is that I've been running around like a madman for the past few days when this was supposed to be a holiday." He clasped his hands together. "I'm exhausted, Sherlock. I'm practically dead on my feet, and staying awake the entire night to collect whatever data it is you need from the beach isn't going to do me any good."  
  
"But John, don't you see! By studying the flow of the tides, we'll be able to narrow down the possibilities of where the body came from, therefore solving the case!"  
  
"You can go if you want, on your own," he yawned. "I don't see what you need me for anyway."  
  
"John."  
  
John held steady, and Sherlock could tell by the focus in his eyes that however hard he tried, there would be no winning this argument. He snatched up his wool coat from the back of the desk chair and made his way down to the beach without another word spoken between them.  
  
He sat cross legged in the soft sand, watching the ebb and flow of the endless waves as the sky became a blanket of stars. Perhaps it was best that John didn't come along with him. The man himself had been perplexing his brain for weeks now. Everything had been so much simpler before. Before, He could lock away every stray thought about John Watson, every emotion felt, every word he wanted to say. Locked away, it was better. Locked away, it didn't throw him along a crumbling edge that he tried so desperately hard to hold onto. He sighed, wishing himself under control. Beachgoers walked past, paying him no attention, and Sherlock was happy with that.   
  
Eventually, there was a shuffling sound behind him, that of a gait he'd know anywhere.   
  
"Thought you weren't coming," Sherlock said, keeping his focus on the dark sea in front of him as John sat down on his right.  
  
John cleared his throat. "Yeah. Well. I couldn't leave you down here alone."  
  
"You seemed perfectly fine with it before," he retorted as he turned to John. Only, John didn't seem to be paying much attention to him. The shore was lined with hotels whose dim lights failed to reach waves, but there were people walking about anyway, groups of friends chatting about while basking in the glow of the moonlight. He watched John carefully as he allowed his gaze to follow a woman as she walked past, leaving Sherlock to feel by himself. _And you seem perfectly fine with it now_ , he thought.  
  
"Don't bother," Sherlock sighed, "she's not your type."  
  
John turned to him, laughing. "And you would know my type, of course."  
  
"Of course I do," he scoffed.  
  
"Which is?"  
  
Sherlock said nothing for a moment, letting the soft rolls and hisses of the water fill the silence. "The opposite of her," he answered eventually.  
  
John rolled his eyes. He leaned back and planted his hands firmly in the sand to brace himself.  
  
Sherlock turned to face the ocean. "I don't know what you see in these boring women. If they were interesting, sure, but they never are."  
  
He saw John shrug out of his peripheral vision. "You never know, Sherlock. I might find a lovely woman. Settle down, get married, have a family."  
  
Sherlock's stomach dropped at the thought. "Why?" A wife, a home that wasn't theirs, children - all leading to John leaving. It was an eventuality he had always known would come, but he liked to pretend it wouldn't. A wife would never let him come along on crime scenes, especially if there were children involved. Would John even want to anymore?  
  
"Because..." John trailed off, seeming to be at a loss for an answer. "That's what people do," he said lightly, just a hint of laughter wrapping around the end of the sentence.  
  
"Quoting the psychopath in front of the sociopath, John?"  
  
"You're not a sociopath," he said firmly.  
  
Sherlock ignored his words. "So," he began awkwardly, his voice tight, "is that what you want? Kids and a dog and a house somewhere in the suburbs?"  
  
The silence between them was heavy. "I don't know," he admitted after a moment, his words soft and unsure. "What about you?"  
  
Sherlock frowned. "What about me?"  
  
"Haven't you ever thought about finding someone?"  
  
 _I thought I had._ John wasn't his to keep and he never would be. He cursed inwardly as his thoughts and emotions spiraled out of control, utterly betraying him. So, is this what it was like? To care about someone and not want to lose them? To fall in - "No," he said, partly in an answer to John, but mostly as a way to cut off his thought process before it could go any further.

"Sherlock," John began carefully, "have you ever been in a relationship?"  
  
He grit his teeth. "What does it matter?"  
  
"I was just cur-"  
  
"Ah yes, curiosity. 'Let's delve into Sherlock's past and discuss what a freak he is,'" he spat out. "I've heard it all before," he muttered as he drew his knees up to his chest. A stillness fell between them with only the soft sound of the crashing waves daring to pierce through.  
  
"Is that what you think of yourself?" John's question was careful and gentle.  
  
Sherlock drew his arms around his knees, letting his head rest upon them, keeping his stare straight ahead. "It's what everyone else thinks of me. But for the record, John, I don't care what they think." And honestly, he didn't, or at least he'd mostly convinced himself of that. But either way, they didn't matter.  
  
"What about me?"  
  
Sherlock said nothing. Never before had he let anyone in, never had he allowed anyone to get this close. He didn't want to hear what John thought of him just in case it wasn't what he had hoped. John wasn't other people, he did, in fact, matter.  
  
He felt John gently touch his arm, his hand wrapping around the material of his thick coat. "Surely you know I don't think that." His words were soft and sure. Still, Sherlock didn't speak, and John let out a long, soft sigh. "Sherlock, look. You're amazing, you know? And not just you're brain, all of you. Sure, you can be an insufferable git," he laughed, "but you're my best friend." There was a pause in his words. "They're wrong, you know," he added, "and what's better is that they're too stupid to realize just how wrong they are."  
  
Sherlock turned and found John smiling warmly at him, his face open and honest, a beacon of light among the darkness. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Worries of the future floated away, and his world dwindled down to he and John on the beach that night. In the distance there were quiet sounds of laughter from the boardwalk, and Sherlock and John were just far away enough for it to feel as if they were comfortably alone. The soft sea breeze swept through John's short blond hair, and his eyes grew impossibly darker, but shining as they reflected the starlight. Sherlock watched as John tore his gaze away and looked up to the sparkling night sky, smiling fondly.   
  
"Isn't it beautiful?" John asked, glancing upwards.  
  
As if a bubble of realization burst through his chest, Sherlock found himself unable to take his eyes off of John. "Extraordinary," he whispered.  
  
The night wore on. Eventually, John tugged him down into the sand, and side by side they stared up into the endless sky, facing the light of the unknown together. John told him stories, old tales of how the stars were connected, and how they lit the way for those who were lost once the light had gone. To Sherlock, none of this information seemed useful, but he listened intently anyway. He could appreciate the beauty of the universe, and he felt drawn to to it as the words rolled off of John's tongue, his comforting voice riding along with the waves.  
  
The case at hand was almost forgotten about as they lay there that night, but Sherlock inexplicably found himself not caring. It was only when John's words came to a subtle end that his mind was drawn back to it. Confused, he turned his head to look at his friend. He found John to be sound asleep next to him, seemingly at ease enough in Sherlock's presence to trust himself to fall asleep outdoors. A slow, unconscious smile crept upon Sherlock's face at the sight, John completely at peace, his face relaxed, his breathing deep and even.  
  
It occurred to Sherlock that, no, the stars weren't the most beautiful thing; John was.   
  
He sat up, trying his hardest to focus on the tide, listing out all of the possibilities in his head. It was only when a long susurrus caught his attention that he turned his attention back to John, who had turned on his side to face Sherlock, half curled within himself. Sherlock saw him shiver slightly in the long sea breeze that passed over them. Quietly, he stood and eased off his coat before untangling it and laying over him. The dark wool enveloped his body, and John looked comfortable, immediately burrowing into the material. Sherlock resumed his spot next to John and stared out into the dark sea, his mind a tangled mess.  
  
He felt unsure of himself, not knowing what he wanted anymore. The waves rolled and crashed, and he couldn't help but think of London on the other side of that boundless body of water. His life was London, his concrete jungle of facts and all things hard and cold; London was his mind. He was here, on this beach, the tip of a land of unexplored territory for him filled with uncertainty and all things warm and open; his heart. He had thought they were separate, and he had thought wrong. Unknowingly, when it came to John, he'd been carefully toeing that line, just testing his feet in the waters that connected the two, and now he was drowning in the middle of it, an invisible storm trapping him in the tides, disorienting him to the point of losing direction.  
  
He was lost at sea and terrified, not knowing which way to swim. The only thing he was sure of was John, who he needed at his side, his lighted compass guiding him home. Sherlock sighed, and hugged his knees to his chest.

* * *

John felt warm and oddly comfortable as he breathed in, inhaling a familiar scent of rain, cheap laundry detergent, and an odd mixture of chemicals deeply into his lungs. He shuffled a bit, blinking the literal sand out of his eyes to get his bearings. He found Sherlock sitting cross-legged next to him with his elbows perched on his knees, his head in his hands, staring off into the lavender tinted distance like an overly-bored child. If it weren't for the salty ocean air mussing his curls, he would have sworn he was a statue.  
  
This almost-statue, however, was missing one important element, and it dawned on John in that moment that Sherlock's coat is what had kept him warm. He sat himself upright and tried to smooth out his undoubtedly ruffled hair. "Morning," he said to Sherlock, his voice rough and gravelly from disuse. Sherlock hummed in response. John stretched and yawned before giving himself a shake. "Find anything?"  
  
"It doesn't make any sense," Sherlock muttered. John saw him narrow his eyes. "There were markings on his body, injuries that indicate a fall. She has to be lying."  
  
"Okay, so," John began, "if you think he fell, couldn't it have just been from a boat? Perhaps she took a boat out into the open water and dumped his body?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head. "Not unless it was a luxury cruise liner. Those injuries are inconsistent given the height of the average boats used in this area." A deep, disgruntled noise rose from the back of Sherlock's throat.  
  
John sat silent for a moment and then stood and cleared the sand from his jeans and Sherlock's coat. He reached his hand out to Sherlock who stared at it with a questioning look on his face. "Come on," John said, "let's go for a walk."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because you need some air."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We're already outside. I believe that completes the purpose of 'getting some air.'"  
  
John sighed. "Just come on," he said, wiggling his fingers as an invite. Sherlock took his hand and pulled himself upward.  
  
It was early, and the beach was mostly deserted. They walked along the vast shoreline as the morning tide teased their feet, the water icy from the dark of the night. The ebb and flow of the waves washed away the evidence of their footprints in the sand as they went along. The sun had just started to come up over the horizon of the Atlantic, warm pinks and oranges scattering about the passing clouds to offset the chill lavender of the land, springing life to the beach. As they walked, John caught a glimpse of Sherlock and himself in a reflection among the shallow stretches of water across the sands. It occurred to him that they must seem like a couple with their exchanging of smiles, Sherlock's coat draped over his arm as they walked together in the sunrise.  
  
Flocks of seagulls soared above and around them, eventually landing at the water's edge, their loud squawking fitting right in with the soothing sea. Their feathery forms were silhouetted perfectly against the rising sun, and John insisted on stopping so he could snap a photograph of the sight. He took several, and when he turned back to Sherlock, his breath caught.  
  
Sherlock stood there as the water crashed sideways against his ankles, his elegant profile facing left as he stared off into the distance, a peaceful look washing over his usually stony features. His shirtsleeves had been rolled up to his elbows, and his hands tucked into his pockets, just like they had been a few days before. His shirt exposed his clavicle and his long neck in the most sensual way. His verdigris eyes were impossibly brighter somehow, and his skin was glowing from the warmth of the sun as the breeze tousled his mess of curls just so. John unconsciously licked his lips as only one word floated about his mind.  
  
 _Beautiful_.  
  
Sherlock turned his attention back to him and frowned. "What is it?"  
  
John cleared his throat as he felt a heat creeping up his neck. "Nothing. Nothing. Just..." Words were lost underneath Sherlock's piercing gaze.   
  
Amid his search for words, a woman passed by, offering to take a photo of them together on John's phone, having seen him take a few of the seagulls. Sherlock said nothing, and John was hesitant at first, but took it as a get out of jail free card to use during the awkward moment that just occurred. They ended up taking two as Sherlock was blatantly glaring in the first one. John thanked the woman, and they began walking again as Sherlock tried to sort out the case in his head by talking aloud.  
  
John shoved one hand into his pocket and kicked away some sand. "Well, he couldn't have just fell out of the sky, could he?" A few more steps were taken, and he realized Sherlock was no longer with him. He stopped and turned to find him standing a few feet behind him, frozen in place. "Sherlock? What is it?"  
  
"That's it," Sherlock muttered. His eyes flickered over to John's face.  
  
John stood there, confused. "You think he fell out of the sky?"   
  
"Yes, precisely!" Sherlock exclaimed with a manic grin. "Don't you see? That's exactly what happened! John, you are fantastic!"  
  
John couldn't enjoy his rare compliment, however, as Sherlock turned back towards the hotel and started sprinting. John internally groaned, but he followed him. Wherever Sherlock went, he would follow.   
  
At the hotel, Sherlock impatiently tapped his fingers at his side while his laptop booted up, clearly on the edge of adrenaline with a solved case on the horizon.  
  
"Mind telling me what's going on?" John asked.  
  
"One moment," Sherlock answered, his hands frantically flying over the keyboard. "The night we arrived, John, there was a storm, yes?"  
  
"Yeah," he answered, curiosity wrapping around the word.  
  
"I give you our corpse disposal," he said, flipping his laptop around for John to see.  
  
"A tornado?"  
  
"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed. "You weren't paying attention, but I recall a few mentions in the news, wrote it off as unimportant."  
  
"But I thought tornadoes only happened in the middle of nowhere," John said, old movies springing to his mind, "like Kansas."  
  
Sherlock shook his head. "A common misconception, and a dangerous one at that. Here," he clicked through to another screen showing looping a radar image a few days old. "Ah yes, do you see? There was a tornado, relatively small in size and intensity, but still strong enough to pick up a body and carry it a few miles out to sea. That explains it!"  
  
John was satisfied, it was finally over. He took in Sherlock's expression, however, and saw that he wasn't on the same level as the excitement slowly faded from his face. "You're disappointed, aren't you? You're disappointed it wasn't a part of a grander scheme."  
  
Sherlock shrugged and closed his laptop before making his way over to his bed. "An interesting case while it lasted," he said as he lay himself down, "but a bit of an underwhelming end, I'll admit." He stretched out over the covers as John watched him practically sink into the mattress.   
  
"Well," John said clasping his hands together, "looks like last night was a waste, then," he mused.  
  
A small smile curved up one side of Sherlock's mouth. "I wouldn't say that," he replied, his voice already heavy with sleep.  
  
"No?"  
  
"No," he breathed out as his eyes fluttered to a close.  
  
John sat there for a moment more before deciding to let Sherlock rest. He ended up taking a quick shower. Once out, Sherlock was in a deep sleep, and John couldn't help but smile at the endearing sight. After days of staying awake for a case with his mind on overdrive, Sherlock would usually collapse in a heap no matter where he was, including the kitchen table. More than once John had to guide him to his room or to the sofa to recover, and if one were to ask him, John would swear that Sherlock would be able to sleep through the apocalypse in times like this. He shook his head fondly as he draped Sherlock's coat over his sleeping form and left off to enjoy his last day at the beach.  
  
The day turned out to be sunny and beautiful without a cloud in sight. John took it upon himself to drink as much relaxation in as possible. He drifted in and out of a nap on a beach chair, being careful not to fall asleep and end up looking as red as a lobster as some fellow beachgoers did. He had a late lunch on the pier and watched the parasailers fly across the sky, vaguely wondering if the adrenaline junkie in him would ever be up for that. Most of the rest of the day was spent in amusement as he watched people fall off of boogie boards and face plant into the water. Eventually, as the sun started to disappear behind the buildings of the city, he went back to the hotel in search of Sherlock.  
  
The man had slept for nearly ten hours, and John knew his sleeping schedule would be heavily affected, but he had to let him sleep. Once awake, they found a little restaraunt and had a pleasant dinner before walking up and down the city strip. Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes every time John pulled him into a souvenir shop, which amused John to no end. Of course Sherlock Holmes wouldn't want to be seen as a typical tourist. Night fell and they found themselves on the boardwalk, mainly wandering aimlessly and people watching as the neon lights flashed over their faces.  
  
John found himself wondering if he should try to talk Sherlock into getting on any of the rides, but decided right then and there that it would be a terrible idea. He had gone to get them both something to drink when an attractive woman approached John. She was friendly enough, and asked if he was alone. John stammered for a moment. He tried to tell her that he was with someone, but when he turned to look for Sherlock, he was gone. The woman walked away and it hit John what he had just implied but he found himself not caring, heading back to the hotel room to find Sherlock without a second thought.  
  
John stopped when he entered the room and let the door firmly click shut behind him. "What are you doing?"  
  
"Going figure skating," Sherlock answered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He slung a towel over his bare shoulder and looked at John. "What does it look like I'm doing?"  
  
John stood there with his mouth agape. "You're going to go swimming? _Now_?"  
  
"I don't see why not," he said as he walked across the room only clad in a pair of black swim trunks. "Coming?"  
  
"Why would I?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged. He looked at John from under his fringe of curls with a glint in his eye John knew all too well. "Could be dangerous." He had him, and he knew it.  
  
John changed into his own swim trunks and followed Sherlock down to the beach. He griped the whole way there about choosing the last possible moment to go swimming, but Sherlock just grinned at him. The beach was silent save for the crashing of the waves and the shifting of the sand under their feet. The air had a chill to it, and John knew the water would be much worse, so he tried not to think about that. They lay their towels down and John followed Sherlock into the water, letting out a string of unintelligible curse words the moment he stepped in the freezing cold water.  
  
"Come _on_ , John," Sherlock whined as he walked backwards, going deeper into the black sea.  
  
 _I'm going to kill him, I'm going to kill him_ , was the thought John repeated in his mind over and over. An involuntary hiss escaped his lips as the water receded from his knees and came crashing just over his waist. Finally, agonizingly, he made it out to where Sherlock was standing, grinning like an idiot. The water was up to his chest and the temperature was causing a numb sensation to spread over his skin. He suddenly winced in a spasm of pain, and Sherlock dropped his smile, asking what was wrong. "Shoulder," John explained, gesturing to the tangled web of scar tissue over his left shoulder. "Hurts when it gets cold."   
  
Sherlock said nothing for a second, and then scrunched up his face, staring at the scar. "Should have thought of that before you got shot," he announced flatly. His eyes sought out John's and that same stupid grin returned to his face.  
  
John let out a huff of laughter at Sherlock's humor before splashing the cold saltwater in his face. Sherlock spluttered and John giggled at the sight, and before he knew it, the freezing water splashed into his own face, and a war ensued. Sherlock made an attempt to swim away, and though John was short, he was quick and strong. He gripped one of Sherlock's ankles and pulled his lanky body towards him, pouncing on his back the moment he was close enough. Both of them fell beneath the forming waves, cursing and laughing when they sprung up a few moments later with John's arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck in a chokehold. It was a playful one that could have easily been broken, and they both knew it.  
  
"Say you're sorry," John said as they were splashing about, trills of mirth escaping his lungs.  
  
"Sorry," Sherlock eventually spluttered as his shoulders shook with laughter.  
  
John let go and swam around Sherlock to face him. He went to stand, but the sand below him was almost too far, causing him to stand on the tips of his toes. This did him no good as he couldn't plant his feet to fight the rolling, forming waves, and he slipped into the dark water again. Sherlock's cat-like reflexes came in handy as his arms reached out and wrapped around John's waist. Personal space had become a thing of the past for them as their bodies pressed together, not that it ever really existed in the first place. John found himself planting his left hand atop one of Sherlock's narrow hips, and his right hand over his broad chest, right on top of his rapidly beating heart.   
  
"Actually," Sherlock began, between breaths, "I'm not entirely sorry."  
  
"You're not sorry I got shot?" John asked, panting hard to catch his breath.

"No," Sherlock replied. He looked at John sternly. "If you'd not gotten shot, you'd have not come to London, and I would have a flatmate who can't stand a few body parts or bullet holes every now and then." The seriousness faded, and Sherlock smiled his genuine smile, the one that seemed to make him glow, making his eyes crinkle at the corners.   
  
"And I would still be walking around all alone with a limp," he mused.   
  
John started giggling, and Sherlock joined in. His life was ridiculous, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He never wanted to stop and think about what it might have been like if he had not met Sherlock. He would be merely wandering through life without actually living as he'd done before. Instead, he was here, on a holiday with the man he called his best friend after solving an unexpected case. John honestly could not have been happier. Their laughter rippled over the water, carrying on across the tides.  
  
They were floating along, holding on to one another, giggling through uncharted territory. The pale moonlight washed over Sherlock's features. His muscles were more evident than ever and John watched as water droplets trailed over his alabaster skin, their laughter dying down. In Sherlock's face, John found a soft expression he'd never seen before, his usual closed off features open and honest. Sherlock's dark hair curled wildly from the water, perfectly framing his face with his fringe dripping wet as it clung to his forehead in inky swirls. The blanket of stars reflected off of the ocean and into Sherlock's bright eyes that were growing darker by the second, and John found himself completely lost in them. _Beautiful._  
  
"What you do to me, Sherlock Holmes," John whispered, the words barely registering in his own head.  
  
Neither could break the stare, and the world around them fell away. The heat from their bodies warmed them, drawing them closer together until their faces were mere inches apart. _This is it_ , John thought. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to kiss Sherlock, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. There were too many doubts in his mind. What if he was reading the signs wrong, Sherlock didn't want that? What if everything changed from here, and it all fell apart? He couldn't bear the thought of losing him. He licked his lips and turned his head away shyly, averting his gaze to the water. He cleared his throat as if to say something, to break the tension, but nothing came. Instead, Sherlock's right hand found its way underneath John's jaw and tilted his head back up with a feather's touch.   
  
"John," Sherlock murmured softly, the word escaping as a breath of air between them.  
  
One word was all it had taken, one simple word uttered in a velvety baritone voice to send a delicious shiver over his skin. Sherlock was like a magnet he was inexplicably drawn to. John closed his eyes and took the daring leap. Sherlock's lips were incredibly soft, unmoving at first as if startled, but then insistent. Sherlock's right hand found its place over John's beating heart, which he was sure was ready to burst through his chest at any moment, and he felt Sherlock's doing the same. John pulled him closer. There were no fireworks, no spark of excitement, nothing of that sort. The kiss felt comfortable and familiar, the gentle push and pull of their lips fitting like puzzle pieces. It was chaste yet languid, as neither one of them seemed to want to let go.  
  
Slowly, they both pulled away, breathing in tandem. John didn't want to open his eyes, suddenly terrified of what he would or wouldn't find in front of him. Like the soldier he was, he went into battle, and found Sherlock staring at him with his pupils blown and his lips slightly parted in an expression of almost-shock at what had just happened. John sucked in a breath. _What do I do?  
  
_ Suddenly, Sherlock's features pulled into that of discomfort, and John's heart fell straight through his feet, burying itself on the ocean floor. Without a word, Sherlock unexpectedly disappeared beneath the water and slipped from his arms. John shut his eyes tightly. _Don't do this to me_ , he thought, _don't leave me in this by myself_. When a few moments passed and Sherlock didn't emerge, John began to worry. "Sherlock?" he called out to the air. He quickly turned from side to side in hopes of seeking out a mop of messy curls among the dark waves, but there was no sign of him. John almost panicked until a great splash of water next to him caught his attention, along with a loud intake of breath and a yelp of pain.  
  
John's stomach dropped in a brief flash of panic. "Sherlock?" John swam over to him, but found his face contorted in agony. John went into doctor mode, not bothering to ask Sherlock what had happened. "Come on," he said, pulling Sherlock's body to shore as quickly as he could. They fought to get out of the waves, the tide threatening to pull them back out to sea with every step as they neared shore. They made it out, and John pushed him down into the wet sand with a grunt, searching his body frantically for any wounds. "Sherlock? I don't - oh." There, he saw them - the raised red lines of welts that crossed over and around Sherlock's right foot. John winced in sympathy, silently thanking that it wasn't too serious.   
  
"We need to get you inside," John told him, unable to see or do much for a jellyfish sting in the moonlight. Sherlock groaned. "You've got to let me take care of you," John insisted. He stood and pulled Sherlock up. Sherlock tried to stand up on his own and hissed at the pain. John immediately grabbed him and slung Sherlock's right arm across his shoulders, bracing his body weight against himself as they made a dreadfully slow walk back to the hotel and up the concrete steps. Suddenly, a burst of laughter rose within his chest, and Sherlock paused to looked at him questioningly. John composed himself, and looked Sherlock straight in the eye. "Now who's the one with the limp?" He received a petulant glare in return, but he couldn't help but giggle at it.  
  
Once in the hotel room, John got to work. He saw Sherlock wrinkle his nose out of his peripheral vision. "That smells horrible," he commented.  
  
John sat on the edge of the tub where Sherlock's ankle was propped up, his foot danging over it to catch the vinegar he was using to pour over his skin. "No worse than the smell of eyeballs in the microwave," he pointed out. For the most part, they were silent, and John wasn't sure whether or not that was a good thing. "Alright," he said, capping off the bottle, "into the bath with you. Remember what I said - hot water." He saw Sherlock nod out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn't look at him. He gave his ankle a quick, awkward pat and got out of the bathroom. He busied himself with packing his suitcase, his body practically vibrating from nerves. He had no idea how he was going to face Sherlock again, and he felt sick just thinking about it.  
  
By the time Sherlock came out of the bathroom, John was on the balcony, leaning over the railing and staring up into the dark night sky. Sherlock limped over and leaned in next to him.  
  
"John -"  
  
"Don't," he cut in softly, shaking his head. "If you want, when we get back to London..." He paused, his stomach turning at the idea in his head. "When we get back to London, I'll leave. I'll pack my things and find somewhere else to go."  
  
"Why on earth would I want that?"  
  
"Why wouldn't you?" he asked incredulously.  
  
There was a pause, and he sensed Sherlock shifting closer. "I don't want you to leave," he said quietly.  
  
John closed his eyes and nodded. "Okay," he said, "Okay. If that's the case, just... Let's forget it, alright? Forget anything ever happened. We can go back home tomorrow, and leave this here."  
  
There was another silence on Sherlock's end. "Why?"  
  
John shook his head again. "Because we can't have this," he whispered, hating every word of it.  
  
"Why not?" he demanded.  
  
"We just can't, Sherlock!" His voice was tight and forced as he spoke. _Because I can't lose you_ , he thought. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Either I leave, or we forget this ever happened."  
  
Sherlock said nothing for a long time. A hand slowly reached out, touching John's arm. "I want you to come home."  
  
John nodded. Sherlock didn't do relationships. Sherlock was married to his work. Whatever was happening between them didn't stand a chance in his mind. The day had began so perfectly, too. Just the two of them walking across the beach at sunrise. That was fantasy, he realized, and it couldn't last forever. London was calling their names, beckoning them with clients and corpses and crime scenes. Romance couldn't possibly weave itself between all of that, no matter how much John wanted it, and he hadn't realized how badly he wanted it until now.  
  
They lay in their beds that night, neither one of them sleeping, neither one of them talking. Once they took off in the plane early the next morning, Sherlock slumped in his seat. His head lolled to the side, nuzzling into and resting comfortably on John's shoulder. John wondered if he ought to say anything, but decided against it. Whatever this was that they were in, they were in it together. A few more hours were to be had until they arrived home. Until then, they could live peacefully in no man's land between what they were and what they could never be. This, they could have. John let his head rest against Sherlock's. As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered if Sherlock felt as miserable as he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the song "Beyond the Sea" by Bobby Darin


	5. Words I Couldn't Say

John's lips were soft and warm as the formed against his own. The stars shined down on their embrace in the darkness as if all the Heavens were rejoicing. Not a sound was to be heard save for the gentle water lapping against their bare skin. They were suspended in sea of dreams and possibilities, floating in their own world as the chaos of their lives fell away for just a moment. And in that moment, their hearts pounding within their chests, singing out a melody that no case could hold a note to, he had never been happier. In that moment, Sherlock wanted to do nothing more than to thread his hands through John's hair, to tug him down, down and -  
  
Back in the realms of reality of 221B, the screaming whistle of the tea kettle yanked him from his slumber.  
  
Sherlock rolled over in his tangle of bedclothes and groaned. Another morning had arrived, and the option of crawling back into his dream world didn't exist. He could already picture the routine as he breathed in the scent of slightly burnt toast coming from the kitchen. The morning, like many others before, would bring along feeble attempts at conversation, only to be replaced by awkward silence. Afternoon would bring about a case if the city happened to be on his side, and agonizing apathy if it wasn't. Cases he could do. Crime scenes meant focus on the subject at hand and familiar interaction, only they never seemed to last long enough these days. By nightfall... Well. By nightfall, a quiet hush would ease its way through the flat as John would disappear into the arms of his latest girlfriend, leaving Sherlock to let the strings of his violin sing out his inner-most thoughts.  
  
Sherlock stretched and his long limbs sprawl across his bed as he sighed heavily. It was John in his dreams, when he slept, and racing around in his head when he didn't, occupying every hidden corner of his mind. An agonizing month had passed this way, and if it continued to go on, Sherlock would surely combust of pure frustration. He made certain that he didn't, though. He did his best to keep much of himself hidden under an indifferent mask these days as agreed upon by the unfair ultimatum. Their kiss, _the kiss_ , had put a strain on the both of them. If he could go back in time... Well, no, he wouldn't change a thing, he decided. A mere taste of John was better than none at all, not matter the consequences.  
  
Sherlock sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. For a while, he just listened to the sounds of John puttering around in the kitchen, letting the hiss of the running tap and the clanking of silverware in the sink. The thought that one day the simple domesticity would be replaced with silence and stillness when John found a home elsewhere made his stomach churn. He grimaced before standing and eventually dressing, preparing for the battle of another day.  
  
John was absent from his usual morning spot at the table in the living room. Instead, he was sat cross legged on the floor with a colorful board game sat out in front of him, wearing an earnest smile. "Morning," John said as he glanced up at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the game on the floor. "What's this?"

"Well, you haven't got a case, and I've got nothing to do for a while, so I just thought..." John trailed off and gestured towards the board. "Game?"  
  
It was an odd twist on their usual routine, and a welcome one at that. With the murder mysteries, Sherlock often preferred Cluedo, but the knife holding that particular game against the wall gave away all that needed to be known about the last time gameplay was attempted. Sherlock settled on the floor across from John and joined him in playing The Game of Life.  
  
Distraction was what he needed, but the game was proving just opposite of that.  
  
"You have to get married, Sherlock," John told him, holding out a small plastic bag filled with pink and blue pegs, "now pick your spouse."  
  
He glared at John. "No."  
  
"But you -"  
  
" _No_ ," he said flatly in absolute refusal.

An exasperated expression swept across John's features as he gave up hope, setting the pieces aside and getting on with the game. _So stupid,_ he thought to himself. He was losing, and his car sat much farther back on the board, alone. He turned his attention to John's car and immediately regretted it as every space became quickly filled with a wife and children. He glared at the offending pieces as if they'd wronged him personally, giving him a a painful reminder of his future to come. Was it already beginning? Tonight, John would be going out with a woman. Laughing with her. Kissing her. Climbing into bed and...   
  
Sherlock tightly clenched his fists at his sides as tension crept its way up his spine.  
  
"You okay?" John asked. Sherlock gave a slight nod in response. "Er, well, here," John said, holding out the bag with the blue and pink bits of plastic, "pick your kids."  
  
"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson chirped as she appeared in the doorway.  
  
Sherlock ignored her. "I don't want to," he said adamantly.  
  
"Sherlock, the rules -"  
  
"I don't care what the rules say. I don't want to play by _the rules_." He cocked his head to the side. "Why don't you take them, seeing as how they'd go just as well with your wife and your ' _cozy condo_ ,'" he spat. He flipped the board, sending brightly colored pieces of paper and plastic scattering in chaos about the room. He quickly stood and stomped past a bewildered Mrs. Hudson to grab his coat and scarf, and was on his way out of the flat before another word could be said.

* * *

Molly eyed him cautiously when he walked into the brightly lit lab at Bart's. "Are you okay?"

 "Fine!" He exclaimed with a little too much force. He was perfectly fine, just _peachy_. Molly seemed visibly taken aback, and Sherlock took a few seconds to briefly close his eyes and just _breathe_. Molly didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of his frustration. "I'm fine," he said to her in a much softer tone.  
  
Molly pursed her lips for a moment. "You haven't seemed fine since you came back from your holiday," she ventured. "Did something happen?"  
  
 _Yes, something bloody happened_ , he wanted to shout from the rooftops. Before he could open his mouth to speak, his phone chimed. A quick glance through his messages revealed a an undercover type case from a potential client, and without thinking, he immediately shot off a text to John.  
  
 _Free this evening? SH_  
  
The groaning of the door hinges caused him to look up from his phone the moment he had hit send. There was a tall, slender man in a lab coat striding across the room with the utmost confidence. His slightly unkempt chestnut hair framed his face, and his glasses drew attention to his focused eyes as he started rifling through paperwork at an adjacent table.  
  
"Sherlock?" Molly asked, once again trying to broach the subject.  
  
Sherlock tore his gaze away from the man and turned his attention back to Molly. "Only that John refuses to go along with anything if it doesn't abide by _the rules_."  
  
She smiled a bit as she went began arranging vials around the lab. "Your John, choosing to abide by the rules?"  
  
 _Your John_. What an odd choice of words, as if John were his to keep. If only his world had worked out that way, the past couple of months would have been a lot easier, and he would have spent far less money on nicotine patches, and far less time being frustrated and confused. He still held out hope, but was starting to come to terms with how useless that hope could be. He himself avoided emotions like the plague, and pulling it from John was like trying to squeeze sap out of a dying tree. They were both stubborn, and Sherlock was really beginning to resent that fact.  
  
He could feel John slipping further and further away with each day that passed. Nothing had been the same since the beach, and it took every ounce of restraint that Sherlock had to not bring the subject up, as per John's wishes. But hiding away in hurt and frustration while avoiding the one person he needed - how much longer could he go on like that? If either of them were going to hold onto what they had, then one of them needed to step up to the plate, and soon, he decided. When his phone chimed again, his heart practically leapt, and he berated himself for it.  
  
 _I can't. I'm going out tonight, remember?_  
  
Of course he remembered, how could he forget? His last glimmer of hope began to fade as he received another message.  
  
 _Thanks for leaving behind a mess for me to clean up, by the way._  
  
"Yes. Now, onto more important matters," he said as pocketed his phone with a grimace. "I have a case tonight, and I need to stake out. A hand would be incredibly useful." Sherlock lowered his voice slightly to make himself seem less intimidating. "Molly, would you...?"  
  
Molly smiled softly and shook her head, turning away from him. "Oh no, I've got plans."  
  
"Ah."  
  
The man at the other table piped up suddenly, his voice filled with curiosity. "A case? Are you some sort of policeman or something?"  
  
"Oh yes!" Molly beamed at the man. "He's a brilliant detective."  
  
"Detective?" He asked, looking intrigued.  
  
" _Consulting_ detective," corrected.  
  
"Is that so?" The man sat aside his paper and walked over to him, his arm outstretched. "Jack," he said, introducing himself as he shook Sherlock's hand.  
  
Sherlock smiled politely at him. "Sherlock," he responded.  
  
"So you need someone to help you, you said?"  
  
Oh yes, he would do nicely.

* * *

Bits of dust scattered and swirled through air as the warm sun began to set over the city, its golden rays shining in through the windows of 221B. Sherlock watched the specs lazily float above him as he stared up at the ceiling from where he lay reclined on the sofa, his deep blue dressing gown wrapped around him. Tonight, he wouldn't be left sitting alone in the dark, waiting for the daylight to come. No. Tonight, there would be a break in the pattern, and Sherlock was eager to see the results. A slow and subtle smirk formed across his face when John's cheerful footfalls echoed up the staircase.  
  
Sherlock quickly hid his previous smirk with a mask of boredom and indifference. "What time is it?" he asked as John stepped over the threshold and into the kitchen.  
  
John let his keys clatter onto the table, joining the mess of experiments Sherlock had out. "About six. Why?"  
  
Sherlock quickly stood from the sofa and marched into the kitchen. "I need to get ready," he mumbled as he breezed past John to his room.

"Ready?" John echoed, following him, stopping right at the door frame as if it were some boundary line he wasn't to cross without permission.  
  
Sherlock slipped his dressing gown from his shoulders and tossed it onto his bed. "Yes," he answered. He began rifling through his closet for a jacket, making quite a bit of noise as he went along before finally slipping it on in front of his full length mirror. He began mussing around with his hair, and in the reflection he noticed John leaning his body against the door frame, his arms crossed, and his eyes narrowed at him. "What?"  
  
"Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Just. You, primping yourself. You act like you've got a date or something, is all."  
  
A knock at the kitchen door came before either of them could speak a word. _Right on time_. John left the doorway to see who it was as Sherlock straightened out his jacket.  
  
"Hello," he heard a man's voice say. "Is Sherlock in?"  
  
"Er, hello." There was a pause in John's words. "Yes, he's in. Who are you?"   
  
"Oh, sorry! I'm Jack."  
  
"And you... Have a case for us?"  
  
Sherlock began walking down the hallway as Jack spoke. "Oh, no. Sherlock asked me to meet him here before we went out tonight."  
  
John's face immediately pinched together in confusion. "Went... Like a date?"  
  
Sherlock pulled his coat away from where it was draped over one of the kitchen chairs, pulling it on swiftly. "Oh, hello, Jack. Nice to see you've met John. We really must be going, though. Reservations and all that." John's mouth parted slightly in disbelief, and Sherlock could just make out the touch of hurt hidden away in his eyes under the fluorescent lights, but he couldn't bring himself to feel too badly about it. He pulled his scarf around his neck and let Jack lead the way down the stairs. "Oh and, don't worry," he called as he made his way down the staircase, "I won't be texting you tonight."

* * *

Miserable couldn't even begin to describe the way John felt.    
  
That night between himself and Sherlock on that beach had been invading his every waking thought since they got back. Sherlock's messy after shower hair would remind him of how his curls clung to his face as they floated in the sea, and the sounds of his violin brought him back to the silence they found themselves in as they kissed, when everything else for a moment fell away from existence. He threw himself into dating to try to offset the memories, but his plan was failing miserably. This was what he was supposed to do, wasn't it? He was supposed to settle down and have a family, not run around London for the rest of his life, chasing after a man in a long coat who keeps limbs in the fridge. He would settle down, and he and Sherlock would remain friends, and that's how it would be.  
  
But then there was Jack. Jack, with his fancy hair and glasses. Jack, who was taller and younger than he was. Jack, who was out with Sherlock doing God knows what. Sherlock was out, at the very least, communicating with someone else. Shouldn't he have been happy for him? That was the normal reaction, wasn't it? Then again, hardly ever did John do 'normal.' As the night went on and no messages arrived from Sherlock as promised for once, John couldn't help the surge of jealousy that swept through him as he clenched his phone in his hand underneath the table.  
  
Across the candlelit table in the little romantic restaurant, his date, Sabrina, began talking, but he found it hard to pay attention to her words. Were they on a date? Did Sherlock even _do_ dates? It was unheard of to settle down and not expect Sherlock to do the same, but rationality had apparently gone out the window for now as he swore he could feel his blood pressure rising at the idea of Sherlock dating someone else. Or were they on a case, at some hidden away crime scene in the depths of the city? For some reason, that hit harder than anything else. John idly pushed around his pasta on his plate as Sabrina talked. The thought of being replaced and no longer needed in Sherlock's life was too painful to dwell on. With temptation getting the better of him, as quickly as he could, he checked his phone for the upteenth time. No new texts had come in, as Sherlock had promised, and his stomach churned at the fact.

"You seem distracted," Sabrina sighed.  
  
John left his phone on the lap and sat both of his hands on the table in front of him, lacing them together to resist the temptation to check his phone. "No, no! I'm focusing, one hundred percent."  
  
She leaned forward, her bright red dress accentuating the beauty of her rich, dark skin and ringlet curls. She propped her head on one of her hands and smiled softly as she peered at him from under her long lashes. "So what do you think, then?"  
  
"I, erm. I think..." He was caught, and they both knew it. He searched for an escape by glancing back down at his phone, which he should have realized sooner was a mistake.  
  
She rolled her eyes and stood up, grabbing her coat in the process.  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
"When you become more interested in me than whoever you're texting, let me know," she said. "Then again, I don't see that happening." She walked away from the table and out of the restaurant.  
  
John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He didn't blame her one bit. In fact, he deserved to be walked out on with the way he'd been acting the entire evening.  
  
He needn't worry about Sherlock's abrupt actions from what he dubbed _the incident_ , as it seemed to be swept under the rug. But this, this was different. Everything had been his fault, and the realization dawned on him that maybe he had made a mistake all those weeks ago. As he sat there alone, he found himself wondering if what he was supposed to do and what he wanted to do were two entirely different things.  If he and Sherlock were going to get anywhere with their friendship, they needed to talk. They needed to have a civil conversation about anything and everything. No more beating around the bush and avoiding each other like they had been doing. Had their tension played a role in his anger towards Jack, or was it something else? He didn't know the answer to that, or to anything, really. All he knew is that he needed to talk to Sherlock, and soon.   
  
He decided to break the silence by shooting off a text to the detective.  
  
 _Where are you?_

* * *

Absolutely nothing had been heard on Sherlock's end by the time John had made his way back to Baker Street. The empty flat was dark and dismal upon entering, and John had nothing to do but wait. He took a shower and changed into his pajamas to kill some time, and even made a couple of cups of tea, but time passed slowly and it felt like the clock was laughing in his face. Eventually, he settled on the sofa watching a nature documentary of some sort before nodding off as the clock ticked on.  
  
He dreamed of London, of criminals and chaos, and forever chasing a billowing coat of wool. In his slumber, he became lost within the city streets as they fled from blood-thirsty creatures lurking in the shadows, laughing all the while. And soon, he was alone. The laughter carried on without him, joined by the echoes of another, and John was left to attempt to find a new path for himself through brick walls and alleyways. The walls soon came closing in as his attempts for an escape became useless. He was left suffocating in his solidarity, leaving him to cry out for help, only to hear distant laughter in return.  
  
A warm, familiar voice came showering down on him. "John," it said. In the pitch black becoming of his dreams, he saw nothing. "John," it said again, a little louder, but it was too late, for he was lost.  
  
John nearly bolted upright on the sofa breathing raggedly. His eyes darted around and he found Sherlock, in his pajamas and blue dressing gown, perched on the edge of the sofa with one hand over John's chest. His sharp features were softened in the glowing corner light, his lips slightly parted, and eyes wide and worried. John didn't even give himself a moment to think before, still half asleep, he fisted a hand in Sherlock's shirt, pulled him down, and pressed their lips together.  
  
John felt Sherlock's mouth curve into a smile against his own.  
  
"If you insist on kissing me," Sherlock murmured, amusedly, "then I insist you break it off with your girlfriend. Adultery is very unbecoming of you, John."  
  
As if in a delay from sleep, he suddenly realized what was happening. This was not what he had planned on happening. "Oh, my God," he whispered as he let go of Sherlock's shirt, "I can't believe - I'm so -"  
  
"John." Sherlock's name instantly quieted him in his panic. Sherlock never took his eyes away from John's as he hovered over him with his thigh pressed against John's hip. He stared, his head tilted in intense curiosity. After a moment or two, he brought his hand up to cup one side of John's head, letting his thumb softly caress the skin of his cheek.

It was now or never, he realized. He took in a shuddering breath. "What do you want, Sherlock?"  
  
"I was rather enjoying what we were doing about thirty seconds ago."  
  
John shook his head. "I mean -"  
  
"I know what you mean," he assured him. "My answer still stands." Sherlock's thumb caressed his cheek again. "What are you so afraid of?"  
  
That question in itself would have felt like a challenge had it not been for the soft and careful way Sherlock asked. He couldn't believe this is where they were, on the sofa, discussing possibilities he'd have never thought of when they'd first met. In fact, when they'd first met, John had no idea what he was in for, or how much he would come to need the man on the sofa with him. It would have been unheard of back then, but now... He licked his lips. "If we go and - if things change -"  
  
Sherlock abruptly sat back and let out an exasperated sigh. "For God's sake, John, what could possibly change? We already work, eat, and live together. We know the worst about each other and still manage to go everyday without wanting to strangle each other."  
  
"That's not entirely true," John said, only slightly sarcastically.

Sherlock frowned for a fraction of a second. "The point I'm trying to make is - for all intents and purposes, we're already a couple."  
  
John sat himself upright on the sofa. Sherlock had a point. In fact, half of London had thought as much for well over a year now, but their thoughts weren't the ones that mattered. What he and Sherlock had is what mattered the most, especially in that moment when their unnamed relationship had become so fragile. He averted his eyes downward and began absentmindedly playing with the fabric of his pajama bottoms. "What if it goes wrong?" he asked quietly. "What if we break each other and go our separate ways? Is it worth losing this?"  
  
"Do you really think that's a possibility, for us to forever part?" John didn't answer. "Oh please, John. You'd be much too bored without me."  
  
John playfully hit his leg, causing Sherlock to laugh. He glanced upward briefly and smiled. "Sure it's not the other way around?" he asked before looking down again. "Arrogant sod," he huffed out, amused.  
  
"Either way, you have a decision to make," he said as he stood up. "But I can't go on pretending nothing has happened. I won't. This last month has been -"  
  
"Hell," John finished for him, looking up.  
  
Sherlock nodded, and walked over to his violin where it sat on the cluttered table between the two great windows. He plucked it from his case as John watched. The decision had been left up to him, and he knew they couldn't stay in limbo forever. What good would that do either of them? As Sherlock steadied himself and let his bow slide over the violin strings, John was mesmerized. It occurred to him that he could watch Sherlock play forever, and no one else's company would match the music Sherlock had laid out for them both. He would live and die for this man, and couldn't imagine a moment without him. As the music continued on, he realized he wanted to be there, to experience the thrills and the laughter, and witness his hair turning silver as the years wore on. He never wanted to leave his side.  
  
In the depths of his heart, it hit him that he loved Sherlock in every way that he could love, and what good is love if it goes to waste?  
  
He pushed himself up off the sofa as Sherlock watched him carefully. He walked over cautiously as Sherlock stopped playing, He took his head in his hands. The detective's eyes became heavily lidded as he moved in and brushed their lips together once more.  
  
"Date didn't go well then?" Sherlock murmured after a few seconds of a blissful kiss, smiling against John's skin.  
  
He shook his head, his eyes still closed. "Broke up with me. Seems I was too occupied with you."  
  
"Pity that, breaking it off when you finally have something interesting to talk about."  
  
John laughed, then suddenly pulled away, dropping his hands. Sherlock lowered his eyebrows in confusion as John took in a breath, remembering the events that altered his date - and his night along with his friendship - completely. "How was your...?" he trailed off, unable to mention Jack's name without a rush of jealousy bubbling to the surface.  
  
"Hm? Oh! That," he said, placing his violin and bow on the table. "We went on a stake out at a restaurant and then the apartment of a supposed drug smuggler. Excruciatingly simple case, really."  
  
"So it wasn't an actual date then?"  
  
"By your own definition, John, a date is 'where two people who like each other go out and have fun.'"  
  
"Oh," he said, awkwardly shuffling his feet.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock retorted, placing his hands behind his back. "Except I didn't have fun, and I didn't like him all too well." A small grinned formed across his face.  
  
John blinked. "You did that on purpose, didn't you? Bringing him here. To make me jealous."  
  
A hint of pink began to form across Sherlock's cheeks as he turned his head away. "You merely assumed and I failed to correct you."  
  
"Right," John said, rolling his eyes. "You seem to be good at that when it comes to other people talking about us."  
  
Sherlock looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Should I begin correcting people now?"  
  
John grinned. "Not at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the song "Words I Couldn't Say" by Rascal Flatts


End file.
